Refinement
by Taywen
Summary: Panem. The 324th Hunger Games. Some things have been changed - refined. Most have stayed the same, though. Welcome to the future, and may the odds be ever in your favour.
1. PRELUDE

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>PRELUDE<strong>

_what has changed, and what has remained the same_

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><p>THE <em>STATIC<em> –

The** industry** of each District remains the same. (_However_, several other factors about the Districts have changed.)

The **Capitol** is still the _boss_. The majority of its population remains _oblivious and pampered_. The government is the same sort of _oppressive regime_ as it was under Snow's direction 249 years ago.

And the **Hunger Games** remain a Capitol citizen's _favourite _form of _bloodthirsty entertainment_.

District **One **is still a 'Career' District, and its population remains highly _photogenic_. Its **Victors** are _always_ favourites amongst the Capitol citizens. (That _immoral_ but _highly lucrative_ practice of **sexual slavery** of the more attractive Victors? Still popular.) District One continues to produce the _luxury_ items _necessary _for the Capitol's indulgence.

The same can be said of District **Two** – it maintains the largest pool of _Victors_, with at least **20** more than District One, which has the second largest. Its _Career program_ remains one of the most effective, and District Two is still the most **loyal** of Panem's Districts. It continues to produce most of the raw materials through its mining, and the Peacekeeper-training facility is located within its boundaries.

As for District **Three**: it remains a District with few Victors, the majority of who won on a combination of _luck_ and _brilliance_. Its factories produce most of the electronics and other _truly essential_ things for the Capitol.

District **Six** continues to have the highest rate of _morphling-addicted_ Victors. Their pool of Hunger Games champions is comparable in size to that of District _Three_. It generates the _power_ to fuel the Capitol; its coal-burning plants and electricity-generating facilities run _24/7_.

District **Eight**'s situation remains largely unchanged as well; the damage from the prolonged campaign between the _Capitol_ and the _rebels_ has since been repaired, and District Eight still has _few_ Victors to its name. Textile factories continue to dominate the landscape of this District.

What can be said about District **Ten**? There is no major difference between what it was _before_ the Second Rebellion, what it is _now_. Its Victors are _not_ numerous, and it continues to be the District in charge of livestock.

District **Eleven** is in a similar position to the afore-mentioned Districts; the main difference being that its pool of Victors is _second-last_ in Panem. The only District with a lower number is, _of course_, District Twelve. It is the District with the _largest_ population, the majority of which tends to the numerous _fields_ and _orchards_ that make up its industry.

_Last_, and definitely _least_, District **Twelve** is as downtrodden as _ever_, despite being rebuilt from the _ground up_ after the rebellion. It has the smallest pool of Victors – **7**, total, over the past 323 years – and things don't seem liable to change _anytime soon_. District Twelve's **death rate** from _starvation_ and other complications pertaining to _malnutrition_ is the highest in Panem. Accidents in the _coal mine_ are fewer now, as the population in Twelve is the lowest in the country.

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><p>THE <em>VARIABLE<em> –

The **president** of Panem is a _woman_ with a kind smile and _blood-red_ eyes. (Was the **Capitol**'s continued interest in self-improvement mentioned?) Her name is **Flame**, and she was recently _elected_ on a platform of _change_. (The _Hunger Games_ will remain, of course.)

The **rules** of the _Hunger Games_ have been changed as well; recent reforms have modified the rules concerning things like _volunteering_ and_ victory conditions_.

Namely: **volunteers** may be of either sex. _Two_ tributes are still being reaped each year, one male and one female, but the _volunteers_ could be two males, or two females.

_After_ the success of _Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark_'s **victory **249 years ago, two tributes have the _possibility_ of **sharing** their victory, if certain _conditions_ are met. At the beginning of every _Hunger Games_, the 24 tributes are _randomly_ paired off, regardless of age, sex, District or ability. If both of those tributes survive to be the **final two**, they win.

Now, you may have noticed that _not all_ of the Districts have remained **static**. After the _Second Rebellion_, the _Capitol_ had to make some **scapegoats**.

District **Four** was severely _punished_ for their high-profile Victor, _Finnick Odair_'s involvement in fomenting rebellion. When _trained_ tributes ('Careers') tried to **volunteer**, they were executed as _traitors_ for breaking the law _banning training_ for the Hunger Games. Even if the volunteers **weren't** trained, they were still _persecuted_ as such. The practice in District Four has since tapered off, and it is no longer considered a 'Career' District. The _high concentration_ of Victors from the first 75 years of the Hunger Games has evened out over the next 249 years, so that District Four's pool of Victors is merely _average_ now. Fishing remains the District's industry.

District **Five** seems to have taken over its predecessor's role as the _third Career District_. It rose to prominence following the _Second Rebellion_ as even further scientific advancements were demanded; it is now the second- or third-_wealthiest_ District in Panem. While District **One**'s tributes are always _beautiful_ and District **Two**'s are without fail _strong_, District _Five_'s tributes are, without exception, **brilliant**. Scientific research (_medical _advancements, _improvements_ in plastic surgery and artificial colouring techniques, among others) remain the duty of this District.

Despite _their _prominent Victor's involvement in the _Second Rebellion_, District **Seven** was not punished anywhere near as _harshly_ as District Four was for _Johanna Mason's_ rebellion. After the **Capitol** quashed the rebellion, District Seven returned to the fold with a _speed_ and _devotion_ the other, only-grudgingly-loyal Districts found _sickening_. As a reward for Seven's _loyalty_, the **Capitol** made it one of the wealthiest Districts and continues to _turn a blind eye_ when Careers consistently _volunteer_. The _vast forests_ of this District provide ample opportunities for its industry.

However, it can be agreed that District **Nine** definitely got the _short end_ of the stick. A low-profile District, Nine was neither staunchly _loyal_ to nor was it staunchly _against_ the Capitol's rule. After the _disaster_ of making District _Thirteen_ their scapegoat in the _first_ rebellion, the **Capitol** decided to _do things right_. They razed District _Nine_ to the ground, and set up the _food-processing_ factories in the individual Districts that required them, rather than having the products go to Nine instead.

What can be said about District **Thirteen**? Its labyrinth of underground passages has been converted into little more than a _glorified prison_. The _nuclear weapons_ had long since been removed, and Thirteen's population consists of criminals and their children. Something can be _said_ for raising kids in that sort of environment though: apart from the _Career_ Districts, _Thirteen_ has the highest pool of Victors. In fact, eligible children often _kill_ for the opportunity to volunteer; victory means escaping the hellhole, and even if they die, they don't have to _return_. In a way, District _Thirteen_ could be considered a fifth _Career_ District.

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><p>TL;<em>DR<em> –

Tributes are paired together randomly at the very beginning of each Hunger Games; that pair can win the Games together; otherwise, it's a one-person deal. There's still a girl and a boy reaped from each District, but the volunteers can be of either sex.

One (luxury items), Two (mining & Peacekeepers), Five (scientific research) and Seven (forestry) are the Career Districts.

Four's (fishing) pretty much Twelve-level, now.

Nine (food processing) got destroyed; Thirteen (prison) is the twelfth District (and consistently puts out strong tributes).

Three (factories), Six (power generation), Eight (textiles), Ten (livestock), Eleven (agriculture) and Twelve (coal mining) are pretty much the same.

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><p>So, have I <em>piqued <em>your interest? ;) If you're interested _please_ read on ~

And don't worry, I _won't_ be continuing my **abuse** of the **bold** and _italics_ function for the story proper. ;)


	2. PROLOGUE

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<br>**

_meet the Head Gamemaker  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Arius Strong, Head Gamemaker<em>

My spacious, state-funded apartments are more than adequate for a family of ten, but I find that I like being alone in my home – apart from the Avox servants, of course. I had a boyfriend, for a while, but I think he got a bit intimidated when I was appointed the Head Gamemaker a year ago.

Well, that's fine by me. If a guy can't handle every part of me... There's no reason to keep him around.

Just as my Avox chef sets my breakfast before me, my iPhone X (the latest model, of course) starts going off. I tuck a piece of bacon into my mouth before checking who or what it is.

A short text message awaits me, from my personal assistant:

_Arius – Don't forget about the meeting with the rest of the Gamemakers this afternoon._

I roll my eyes: as if I'm about to forget something as important as that. This is the last meeting to go over every detail of the arena before the reapings. I continue reading:

_And President Flame just requested a meeting in your office at 10 this morning_.

I almost choke on my mouthful of food. President Flame- A meeting- At _ten o'clock _in the morning!

A glance at the clock tells me it's 9:45.

I stuff a few more morsels of food into my mouth and rush out of the spacious dining room. Fortunately, my office is in the same building as my apartment, but I'm totally unfit for another human's company!

I have my head Avox set out a new outfit for me every morning, though I usually end up changing just about everything about it. Today, I don't have that luxury. I hurriedly dress in front of the mirror, trying not to look at the unruly state of my hair. At least I showered last night...

I slick my shaggy hair (orange, this week – it's a natural shade, so I really think it sets me apart from those trendy groupies with eye-smarting shades of pink, blue or other similar, unnatural colours) back with copious amounts of gel. Sadly, there's no time to sweep my hair up in my signature 'windswept' look.

There's no point in dwelling on how awful I probably look – it's not like I can do anything about it. I just wish those scientists in District Five would figure out how to make a time machine, already. It would be so convenient.

I exit the elevator at 9:57, adjusting my orange tie (at least my Avox has some sense of colour coordination!) as I walk into the hall. My eyes widen slightly when I see President Flame is already waiting for me, sitting in one of the chairs outside my office door. I quickly fix what I hope is a welcoming smile on my face.

"President Flame, it's an honour as always," I greet as cheerfully as I can manage. It's a bit too early for politics for my tastes, but one can't refuse a President, after all.

"Arius Strong, the man of the hour – I'm just glad you found the time to see me. I'm sure you and the rest of the Gamemakers are busy with preparations for this year's Hunger Games," Flame (first name: Aria) responds, smiling kindly back.

"Oh, of course ma'am. I'm never too busy for a meeting with the President," I assure her. "Please, after you," I add, standing with the door open for her to enter.

"So, I know from our previous correspondence that this year's arena is rather... complex. But everything is ready for the show to begin?" Flame asks, seating herself in the chair before my desk.

I settle into my own chair, trying not to let my nerves get to me. I mean, I know I'm the best at what I do – I wouldn't be the Head Gamemaker, otherwise! – but I haven't gotten used to be so intimate with the President yet. "Oh, yes. Everything's ready. The final inspection was just finished yesterday. Minor setbacks in some of the engineering occurred early on – but don't worry, all the kinks have been worked out," I explain.

Flame nods, her blood-red eyes thoughtful. "Good, good. I would hate for things to turn out badly."

I smile back, a little uncertainly. Is she displeased with my work? The concept of the arena has to be approved each year by the President – so why would she be upset about it now, she approved it. Or maybe I, personally, have done something Flame doesn't like? I try to think of anything I might have done – I was out late partying last night, but I didn't get completely wasted and make a fool of myself... Nothing comes to mind.

"Do you have any last minutes requests, President Flame?" I try. "It would be cutting it close, but I'm sure adjustments can be made within the timeframe, if you feel they're necessary."

"Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. I just wanted to have a chat, that's all. How are you feeling, Arius? This is your first year as the Head Gamemaker, after all," Flame replies, her gentle smiling assuaging my worries.

"Well, I've worked hard, but it's rewarding," I answer honestly as I relax slightly. "I really feel like this year's Games will be a success. Some of my predecessors have lacked... finesse, but I'm confident that I've really refined the process, this year." I stop myself there, before I start babbling about my own importance in front of the _President_.

Flame leans forward slightly. "Yes, I've found that myself. Let's just hope the tributes can live up to your expectations – those poor District children can be so unrefined," she agrees.

Of course, the tributes are the one aspect of the Hunger Games that we Gamemakers cannot completely control. We can manipulate them, obviously, but they're so unpredictable sometimes... "I'll do my best, ma'am," I say, ducking my head.

I see her smile, through my bangs (all that gel, and still my hair flops around). "That's all I could ever ask for, Arius. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Ah- thank you for coming to meet me, President Flame," I say, hastily rising from my seat so that I can open the door for her again.

Once she's gone, I sink back into my seat, not sure what to think. Did Flame just come to see me for a chat? Our conversation was innocent enough, but why do I feel like I just passed an all-important test?

There's no point dwelling on this right now. The reapings are tomorrow, and I still have the Gamemaker meeting to attend. I need to look my best for that, and after a glance in the mirror, I definitely don't look as amazing as I could.


	3. Sarcastic Rich Boy: Trance Arkins

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<br>**

__the sarcastic rich boy  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em><em>Trance Arkins, male tribute of District One<em>_

As a part of my training – not mandated by my instructors, but rather a task that I've set for myself – I force myself to get up as soon as I wake up, every morning. I wake up around six, early but not obscenely so. I'm usually out of the house by a quarter after, jogging to the training center that my mother has enrolled me in.

It's the best one, actually. Because my mother never does things in halves, even if she doesn't exactly approve of me training. I think she initially thought that it was a phase I would grow out of if she decided to humour me, but, well, I'm eighteen now and I plan to volunteer at the reaping today.

I probably subconsciously sensed that she didn't approve and decided to follow through, just to spite her.

Well, maybe I'm being unfair. My relationship with my mother is pretty good, compared to some of the ones I've seen around town.

But enough about that; I hate gossip, and I'm not about to start spreading it around.

Actually, that's part of the reason why I went into training. My hatred of the District politics. My mother is one of the most prominent citizens of District One – she owns one of the foremost gem-making factories in the city – so naturally everyone wants to know little ol' me.

Especially Wonder Tassel (stupid name, right? I mean, you see a name like that and you think _wow, Trance isn't such a bad name_), the daughter of the owner of the _other_ big gem-making factory in the city.

Spending even a little bit of time around her makes me want to rip out her vocal chords, I'll be frank.

I'm sitting downstairs (we have a large, two-storey house despite being a family of two), eating my breakfast and musing over the events that have led me here, today. There's no training today, since the reaping day is officially a holiday. In a place where there're volunteers every year, like District One, it is a holiday. In other, less fortunate Districts... Not so much.

"Good morning, Trance," my mother says, sounding a bit more subdued than she usually does. In public, she's very forceful. Around me, she can relax. "Still set on volunteering this year, I suppose?"

I nod, swallowing my mouthful of cereal. "Of course. Wouldn't to put all those years of training to waste, right?" I grin, knowing that, to a rich family like us, putting a kid through training and then having said child not volunteer wouldn't even put a dent in our finances.

"I'd still be proud of you even if you didn't," she responds, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "You know you'll still inherit the factory. And you won't have to marry that Tassel girl, although I know you know that a monopoly over gem-making of that strength would be a force to be reckoned with."

I shrug disinterestedly. "I can still take over the factory when I return from winning the Hunger Games," I point out. I notice that her grip on the cup tightens at this.

"True," she agrees, a bit tersely. My mother is big about taking responsibility for your own choices. I'm an adult now, and if I die in the Hunger Games, well, that's me dealing with the consequences. She's advised me against volunteering quite a bit, so she's leaving it in my hands, now.

Oh, but she's not a hypocrite, or anything. She also knows that it was her decision to put me through training when I first mentioned it. Not to mention that, after she got pregnant with me, instead of getting an abortion like _her_ parents wanted, she decided to give birth to me and raise me on her own.

If there's one thing we have in common, it's our stubborn streak.

"So, any parties or luncheons I can attend with you before the reaping?" I ask, changing the subject. No one has to work today, but social events are still scheduled.

"There's a lunch at the Tassels' house. To celebrate Wonder's birthday."

I make a gagging sound, and my mother hides her smile by taking a sip of her coffee.

"I wasn't planning on attending, but I will if you wish to," she adds delicately. I roll my eyes. I definitely got my sarcasm from her, too. I'm just far more obvious and rude about.

"No thanks," I say. "I'll just catch up on some reading."

"Edible plants, again? Do you want me to quiz you?" she asks, looking up from the file that she was perusing. Even on off days, she's still working.

"That would be great," I agree, secretly grateful that, even if she doesn't approve of my choice, she's still willing to support me. We spend the rest of the morning going over the book – another self-assigned task; it's a topic covered in the training center, but only briefly.

At eleven-thirty, we both go back to our rooms to get dressed for the reapings.

This year's outfit – lovingly picked out by my mom, with minimal input by me (a bit of a compromise, because she doesn't approve of me volunteering, and I don't like letting her pick my clothes): black dress slacks, a white dress shirt, and a dark blue vest to go over said shirt. Apparently it goes with my blue eyes. I mean, people are supposed to dress their best for this, but usually it's not this formal. Ah, well, if it makes her feel better. I don't bother doing anything with my platinum blond hair – it's too long to be spiked up or something without lots of gel, and I don't really care for that look anyway. I add the silver charm bracelet that will double as my token – it's kind of babyish, but my mother gave it to me for my eighth birthday (and a new charm every year), and I can't think of a better token.

I leave before my mother, because she always takes ages to get ready, and I don't want to be caught in line signing in. She insists on me showing her what I look like all dressed up, though. It's like the first day of school all over again.

I still arrive around twelve; the reaping starts at one, so I guess I'm a little bit early. The line is already pretty long, though. I guess it's obvious that the reaping is something kids look forward to.

After about ten minutes waiting, I sign in and head for the eighteen year old section. In the past, the eligible children were separated by age and sex, but for over two hundred years, they've just been separated by age.

Wonder arrives about fifteen minutes later and immediately latches onto my arm, much to my annoyance. Seriously, I'm only ever rude to her; I don't know why she likes me so much. Not to mention, every single boy in our class would gladly go out with her if she said the word. Maybe she wants the gem-making monopoly that my mother goes on about. Except in my mother's case, she's mostly joking. Wonder is completely serious.

"_Trance_!" she cries, clutching my arm tightly. "I didn't see you at the party!"

"Yeah," I agree. After a pause, where she looks at me expectantly, I flatly add, "I didn't go."

Wonder pouts at me. I notice that several boys are staring in apparent jealousy. Well, marrying Wonder Tassel would guarantee a life of luxury. Too bad I already have that. "Why _not_, Trance?" she asks sulkily.

Oh, for Snow's sake. "I had better things to do," I reply shortly. I kindly don't add, _like jumping off a cliff_.

"Well, if you're too _shy_ to propose-"

"-it's _definitely_ not an issue of shyness," I interrupt, feeling a moment of despair as I realize I'm subconsciously mimicking her use of verbal italics. Great.

"-I already had myself made a ring, so you can-"

Fortunately, this train wreck of a conversation is derailed when my sparring partner from the training center shows up.

"Hey, Arkins. There you are. The press at the front of the crowd is getting pretty intense, you might want to move up," Spark interrupts, and I'm so grateful to him that I don't even call him Sparky like I usually do.

"Well, that's my cue. We should not do this again, Wonder. Farewell," I say, hastily extricating my arm and hurrying off with Spark. Wonder is making outraged noises and unpleasant comments about Spark's family – they're near the bottom of the poorer half of the District, but his parents scraped together the money to train him somehow. It shows in the shabby state of his clothes, though.

Spark snickers as we push our way to the front, so that we have a perfect view of the stairs leading up to the stage. "She's like that every year, and it never fails to amuse me," he remarks, smirking.

"Yeah, yeah. Shut it," I order, elbowing him. Hard.

"I hope you're not planning on using moves like that in the Hunger Games," he drawls, acting like nothing happened.

"I hope you're not planning to score a girlfriend with pick up lines like that," I snipe back.

"You're not a girl. I'd actually show respect to a girl that I'm interested in," Spark responds loftily.

I scoff, but don't bother replying as the mayor and our escort, Lettie Knack, take the stage. The crowd quiets as our mayor steps up to the microphone. When it's mostly silent, he begins to tell the story of Panem, the two rebellions that it survived, and then he recites the Treaty of Treason.

Really dry stuff, I must say. Not to mention the mayor's about ninety and his voice is all croaky and weak.

Finally, Lettie takes the mayor's place. She looks relatively normal, apart from the bright purple hair and lips. Oh, and the gold eyes. That's a nice touch.

"Happy Hunger Games, District One!" she cheers, actually bouncing up and down. She really loves the Hunger Games. An overall enthusiastic cheer from the crowd answers her. "Is everyone ready for me to pick this year's _lucky_ tributes!"

Without waiting for a reply, she moves with surprising agility over to the first bowl of names. I don't think I could pull off heels that high, but then, I'm not a girl. "And the female tribute is... _Casey Taylor_!"

I'm already calling, "I volunteer!" before she finishes reading Casey's last name. I stride up onto the stage, ignoring the annoyed looks of the people around me. They all have one more chance.

"And who are you, cutie?" Lettie asks, and I feel my eyebrow twitch in annoyance. I'm not cute. Boys older than age eight are not cute, and do not appreciate being told they are.

"Trance Arkins," I tell her, smiling. If there's one thing I'm good at faking, it's a smile. I can pretend to be polite for a while... But not long. Smiling, however, is much easier.

Lettie coos over me for a few moments, before moving on to the male reaping bowl. She doesn't even start reading the boy's name before a young girl from the thirteen year old section runs up to the stage. Everyone looks at her like she's a bit stupid, but she just declares, "I volunteer for whoever you drew."

Just like that.

Well, I guess you have to do something drastic to make it up to the stage first from so far away as the thirteen year old section.

"Aren't you eager!" Lettie cheers, directing her to stand beside me. I can see that most of the eighteen year olds at the front are giving this mysterious girl a death glare. "And what's your name, dear?"

"Raelle Dowd," she states, flashing a confident smile at our escort.

"Well, everyone, cheer for District One's lucky tributes: Trance Arkins and Raelle Dowd!" Lettie tells the crowd, as we shake hands, and they do so.

Then we're hustled off to the Justice Building.

My mother is the first visitor the Peacekeepers allow to enter. There are tears in her eyes, which is a bit of a surprise. I can't remember ever seeing her cry before – but she doesn't allow them to fall, so I guess the record's still intact.

"Good luck, Trance," she says. When I open my mouth to answer that I don't need it, she quickly adds, "I know, I know, not necessary. But I wanted to say it anyway." And then she pulls me into a hug.

We're not exactly a huggy family, but today's been pretty weird already, so I just go with it and hug her back. "Thanks, mom," I mutter.

"Now," she continues. "I don't know about the rest of your competition, but that girl doesn't look like much of a threat at all."

"Yeah," I agree, shrugging. "She could be hiding something though, so I'll be keeping an eye on her."

My mother nods. "And you'll join the Career Alliance – won't you?" She sounds a little uncertain, which is to be expected. I'm not exactly a people person. Spark is the only person who could be considered a friend, and I'd say we're more like acquaintances who insult each other a lot.

But I don't need friends, in the arena, I just need allies.

"Of course. It would be stupid not to," I say calmly. "I've got a plan – try not to worry too much."

"Well, I think I saw Spark on my way in, and I'm sure Wonder wants some time with you," my mother says at length, once we spend a minute in silence.

"I'm sure I don't want some time with Wonder," I respond, deadpan. My mother's mouth twitches, but then she frowns at me.

"Now, now. This will be the last time you have to deal with her- when you come back a Victor, you won't have to spend any time with her," my mother teasingly admonishes me. "So... makes a lasting impression."

"Did I hear that right? Did you just tell me to do whatever I want?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

"Time's up, ma'am," the Peacekeeper says, and we both rise and embrace awkwardly again.

"I'll see you in a few weeks, Trance," she tells me, smiling a little shakily. I don't call her on it, just nod in reply.

Spark's next. We chat about my strategy, and my partner; Spark tells me he's never seen her before, so I assume that Raelle didn't attend the same training center as me.

"Well, later. I have to go watch the young sib's; my parents are working overtime," Spark says, and I say goodbye.

Wonder of wonders (terrible pun intended), Wonder doesn't actually show up to say goodbye. I spend the rest of the hour alone.

I'm a little bit hurt, actually.

Ok, I'm lying, I'm actually glad.

The car ride to the train station doesn't last more than five minutes, during which Raelle and I stare at each other. I'm not sure what to make of her, at this point. Volunteering at such a young age isn't an advantage – sure, she looks like she has some muscle on her, but I'm pretty sure the other Careers will be around my age. Any one of us could overpower her.

So either she has some hidden talent that makes her confident she can win... or she's a naive little girl.

I'll hold back my judgements, at least for now.

There's a whole hoard of Capitol reporters and photographers waiting for us at the train station, of course.

"Smile and wave," Raelle orders through her smile, when she sees that I'm just giving the cameras a cool stare.

Whatever. What does she know, she's thirteen? I raise my hand in a lazy wave, and then we're inside the train, metal doors sliding shut.

We get a feast of a late lunch, during which the five of us – me, Raelle, our mentors and Lettie – make some small talk. Raelle seems to be ignoring me, except I'm ignoring her too, so basically it just ends up with us not talking to each other.

"You're both attractive, so you should play up your good looks," my mentor tells us when we arrive at the Capitol in a few hours. Unlike the higher Districts, we'll be watching the reaping recap from the Training Center rather than on the train to the Capitol.

"Will do," I respond, gazing out the window with a passive interest.

"We're probably the best-looking pair this year," Raelle adds, smiling at me.

"I am pretty good-looking," I agree, smirking back. "But you're not so hard on the eyes yourself," I add, before she can get annoyed with me, again. And she's not, I just can't forget that she's _thirteen_. Maybe I'm making too big of a deal out of this.

We're hustled off the train by our mentors and whisked away to the Training Center. Now, I'm used to a life of luxury, but the Capitol is a whole other league of extravagance. There's seeing it on television, and then there's seeing it in person.

The two do not compare.

That night, after another extravagant feast for dinner, we all watch the reaping recap. As usual, the pairs from Two, Five and Seven are all Careers. The pair from Thirteen looks interesting, too. The rest don't really catch my eye, but I'm not paying that much attention either.

I'll see them in training, soon enough.

* * *

><p>AN: First reaping done. 23 more to go... I still need a few more tributes (full list in the previous chapter) so if you feel so inclined... Please submit. Via PM. ;)


	4. Bookworm Archer: Raelle Dowd

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<br>**

__the bookworm archer  
><em>_

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><p><em><em>Raelle Dowd, female tribute of District One<br>__

My name is Raelle Dowd. I live in District One, in the middle class section of the main town. Today is the day of the second reaping where my name will be entered, and today is also the day when I'll be volunteering.

I've spent most of my life – since I was five, actually – training to volunteer, and I feel like I'm ready to challenge, and win, the Hunger Games.

The instructors at the training center I attend are always telling us that punctuality is important. It's important to wake up on time; it's important to show up for class, training and other events on time, you get the idea.

It's a habit to wake up early, so that I can visit the District's library as soon as it opens. My family values literature, and my mother is the English teacher at the local high school. However, like I mentioned, I'm a Career, someone who trains to volunteer for the Hunger Games, and then live a rich life afterward on the prize money. Careers aren't the bookworm type – unless they're from District Five, which I am not.

So, I keep my bookworm-ness quiet, and act the part of someone who's training to win the most bloodthirsty form of entertainment that Panem has to offer.

Today, I woke up at the same time that I always do, only to remember that the library is closed today. Well, I'm not used to sleeping in, so I get up anyway. I still have a book that I haven't finished, and let's face it: I won't be able to take any books (beyond my token) with me to the Capitol.

When I get back, as a Victor, I can take out all the books I want.

As usual, I'm the first one to use the bathroom, which is always nice. Showering without hot water is a pain, but with two parents and three siblings, it's always a threat unless I'm one of the first people in here.

I spend another fifteen minutes carefully brushing my reddish-brown hair, not wanting a single strand to be out of place when I volunteer this afternoon. First impressions are important (another lesson from the instructors, but it's pretty common sense) and a neat appearance is a necessity. Not to mention, my District has a reputation for producing 'beautiful' tributes. I don't want to be the one to break that tradition.

My older brother (he's adopted) knocks impatiently on the door, demanding to know when I'm going to be coming out. I take one last look at my hair in the mirror, then walk out.

"About time," he sighs, walking past me. "I hope you didn't use all the hot water, Raelle."

I smile innocently at him, to which he just rolls his eyes and shuts the door.

I share a room with my younger sister, and my two brothers share a room as well. My sister's still asleep when I come back in, but it's not a problem because I'm used to walking about quietly. Downstairs, it sounds like someone – probably my mom – has started preparing breakfast.

I hope she's making pancakes. I don't like eating waffles. I'm kind of a picky eater.

What to wear for the reaping? I have several outfits in mind, but I haven't decided on _the one_, yet. Like I said before, the first impression is important and I need to look my best today. After hesitating between two of my long tee shirts – the pink and the green one – I finally decide on the latter.

Skinny jeans, and a pale green long tee shirt will be my reaping outfit this year. But it's too soon to change just yet, so I put an older tee shirt and a pair of worn out jeans.

I glance at my sister – still asleep – and decide to let her sleep some more. I grab my book of fairytales and walk down to the kitchen.

Sure enough, my mother is making pancakes, just like I was hoping. We even have some fresh fruit from District Eleven, to mark the special occasion. None of it is the kind I like, though.

"What time were you planning on going to the reaping, Raelle?" my mother asks, expertly flipping the finished pancake from the pan onto a growing stack on the counter.

"I was going to leave at twelve," I reply, flipping through the book until I reached my favourite story. I know it off by heart, but I still like to read it.

"Ok, I'll make sure Raymond is ready by then," she tells me, naming my younger brother. "I was thinking you two could go together, since it's his first reaping."

"As long as he's ready when I want to go," I agree.

In the background, I hear the shower turn off. "I hope that's Raymond," she remarks, glancing at the clock. It's around nine, already.

"It's Lance," I reply. "I can make him wake Raymond up, if you want," I add, feeling restless. Usually reading the fairytales calms me down, but it's understandable that I'd be nervous about volunteering.

"Please do," my mother says distractedly, flipping the pancakes again. "Get your sister too, breakfast is almost ready."

The door to my brothers' room is closed, so I knock and say, "Lance, mom wants you to wake Raymond up. She says breakfast is almost ready."

I get a muffled grunt in response, so I take that to mean 'ok'. I then go back into my room, where, sure enough, Lucille is still asleep.

"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up," I singsong, flipping her blankets back with a small amount of glee.

Lucille starts whining – she's only six – but when I say, "We're having pancakes and fresh fruit for breakfast. Mom says it's almost ready," she starts paying attention.

I help her pick out an outfit – a light blue dress that used to be mine – and pull her hair up into two pigtails. I tug on them for good measure, just to see her wrinkle her nose in annoyance.

"Raelle! Stop it," she insists, pulling away.

I grin at her, but stop. "Hungry yet? Breakfast's probably done by now," I remark, and we both return to the kitchen. Sure enough, a dish of fruit, as well as the platter of pancakes, has been set on the table.

"Raelle, Lucille, please help your father set the table," my mother requests, in the process of frying some eggs. Raymond and Lance are nowhere to be seen – not surprising, considering all boys seem to have an aversion to chores.

"I'll do the cutlery, you do the plates," I tell Lucille, handing the stack of dishes. She dutifully sets them out, with me following behind with forks and knives. My dad sets out the glasses.

There's a bit of a commotion because Raymond doesn't want to come out of his room – first reaping jitters. It's a bit silly, considering this is District One, but my parents eventually manage to coax him out of the room and convince him to eat some breakfast.

I'm glad for the distraction, because usually my parents nag me to eat all the things that I don't like. This way, I'm done my pancakes by the time they come back out, and I still have about two hours until my self-set deadline to leave.

"I'm going to get some practice at the training center – the instructor said I could come in," I announce casually. I haven't told my parents that I plan on volunteering today. It'll be a surprise.

"Ok, what time will you be home?" my father asks, predictably.

"I'll be back by eleven thirty, and Raymond and I can leave for the reaping at twelve," I answer. At my parents' nod, I let myself out of the house and set off for the training center.

"Hey, Raelle! Wait up," a familiar voice calls, and Lance jogs up when I stop walking. He's in training too, though he's not going to volunteer this year.

We've got a friendly sibling rivalry going, Lance and I. While I'd say he's overall a better fighter, he's not _really great_ at anything. I, on the other hand, am probably the best archer in the training center, though my strength in other fighting domains isn't anywhere near Lance's level – except hand-to-hand combat. I think we're pretty evenly matched in that aspect as well.

Anyway, after a few minutes of silence, when the training center is in sight, Lance neutrally asks, "So you're still planning on volunteering, right?"

I glance up at him – although I'm pretty tall for my age, around five foot five, Lance is still taller than me. He's also the only person I've confided in about my decision to volunteer for the 324th Hunger Games. Mostly because, I think he's the only person in my family who would understand and support that decision.

"Yeah, I'm still going to volunteer," I agree, increasing my pace slightly. I don't really want to talk about it, with Lance or anyone else.

"It's not that I don't think you can do it, Raelle," Lance adds, easily keeping pace. "But don't you think a few more years of experience would be an asset?" The note of worry in his voice is understandable, but I find it annoying that he's voicing the exact doubts that I've been having.

"People will underestimate me because I'm younger than them," I answer, trying for confidence. I'm pretty good at sounding confident, though; now if only I could feel that way, I'd be set...

"That's true... Most of the Careers will be over sixteen, anyway," Lance acknowledges as we enter the training center. "Archery, I'm guessing?" he asks drily.

I grin at him. "Of course."

Most trained tributes don't like to rely on archery, because it's a long-range form of fighting. If someone gets close, it'd be easier to stick an arrow in them, obviously, but they could easily knock your bow away and then engage you closer, so in that sense it's riskier than, say, using a sword or a spear. However, since I'm not that strong (for my age I'd say I am, but against teenagers nearing adulthood, the outcome would be fairly obvious) archery is perfect. And like I said, not many people use it, so they wouldn't be expecting it.

There's only one instructor present today, since it _is_ a holiday. They're not getting paid, and training isn't mandatory like it usually is, so no one besides Lance and I is present.

"Lance, Raelle," the instructor greets, nodding to us. "Are you thinking of volunteering today, Lance?" he asks, correctly assuming that one of us volunteering would be the reason we came in for some last minute training.

"Uh, well..." Lance stalls, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. I haven't mentioned my plans to any of the instructors, either.

"I'm the one who wants to volunteer," I tell the man.

He raises his eyebrows, but otherwise doesn't react. "Ah. Well, if you got your hands on a bow... Yes, you'd certainly stand a chance," he agrees at length. "So, you two want to spend a bit of time at the archery station?"

"Yes, please," I agree, smiling, and he disappears into the back room to set it up.

The training center consists of several gymnasiums; the one Lance and I go to is for weapons fighting. At one end is the archery range, which has several types of targets: stationary and moving ones.

I can hit a bull's eye on the stationary targets ten out of ten times, though my accuracy on the moving ones is a bit lower. I never hit less than eight of them, though.

I collect one of the practice bows and a quiver of arrows, Lance following suit. We start off with the stationary targets, just to warm up. Unsurprisingly I score a bull's eye on all ten of them. Lance's record is seven; today is no except, and he scores six.

The instructor then drops the moving targets – they hang from the ceiling and move in a random pattern each time, so a person can't memorize which way they're going to turn next.

Lance is awful at this type of archery, but he does manage to score three hits. With his quiver now empty, he steps back with a laugh.

"It's all yours, Raelle."

I grin at him and get myself into position. Lance's problem is he waits too long. You need to spot the target, then draw your bow and shoot. He does it the other way around.

I hit nine moving targets, six of which are bull's eyes. Not bad.

Lance whistles. "I'll never be that good," he says, patting my head.

"Careful of my hair!" I retort, ducking away. Lance rolls his eyes.

"Want to go again?" he asks good-naturedly, but I think he's a little annoyed at being shown up like he just was.

"No, but I do have some pointers for your style, if you're interested," I answer.

"Well, you are the best... But don't you want to get a bit more practice in?" he hedges.

"It's ok. And there's three days to train when we get to the Capitol," I point out.

"But you won't be showing off your skills to the others... Will you?" Lance asks.

I shrug. I haven't really decided yet. "I'll figure it out, Lance."

He looks like he wants to say more, but then changes the subject. "So, what sort of pointers do you have?"

Lance and I spend about half an hour on his stance, and then the lone instructor makes us leave. It's only eleven, but he insists that we need to be ready because, after all, punctuality is important.

"So, Raymond looked pretty nervous," Lance remarks. "That kid isn't cut out for training."

"Mm. Good thing mom and dad didn't enroll him," I agree. Then again, maybe Raymond would feel better about the upcoming reaping if he had gotten some training.

Raymond is sitting at the table, all dressed up but looking very unhappy when we get home. Lucille is prancing around in her dress, and this just reminds me that I need to get dressed.

Leaving Lance to deal with the two younger siblings, I hurry to my room and put on the outfit I'm going to wear when I volunteer. After a few hours of training, my hair is a bit windswept so I quickly brush it back into shape.

I notice that Lance has managed to cajole Raymond and Lucille (even though they're a little old for it) into reading my book of fairytales that I left on the table. My parents must still be in their room, getting ready.

"Hey, given any thought to what your token would be, you know, if you ever volunteered," Lance asks innocently, and I give the book in his hands a pointed look. He nods once, to show that he understands. Raymond is looking a little pale at the prospect of tokens and volunteering, so Lance and I quickly distract him with questions about school and such, with Lucille unwittingly pitching in.

"All right, let's go Raymond," I say, noticing that it's now twelve.

He shakes his head immediately, but when Lucille shows that _she_ is perfectly happy to go, he grudgingly gets up to leave.

"Mom, dad! We're leaving now!" I call over my shoulder, and lead Raymond out. Lance stays behind with Lucille, who'll be going with our parents.

The line is getting pretty long when we show up, so it takes about fifteen minutes until Raymond and I can sign in. Upon seeing his friends, he immediately forgets his anxiety and runs over to join them in the twelve year old section.

Really. I roll my eyes and walk into the thirteen year old section. I don't have any friends, so I end up standing off by myself, at the front of the section. This suits me fine, though. It'll be that much easier to run up to the stage when I volunteer, this way.

I notice that the eighteen year old section (which is much closer to the stairs) is quite packed at the front. Seeing them is a pretty stark reminder that I'm going to be one of the youngest tributes in this year's arena...

I distract myself with thoughts of the book about mutts I took out recently. It has a pretty comprehensive list of the different mutts that have been created – though usually there's new ones in the arena most years – and I tried to remember the main types.

Lance pushes his way to the front of his age section (sixteen) and nods to me. I give him a smile that only feels a little bit shaky. I can't stop myself from pacing in a tight line; as the time to volunteer draws closer, I only get more and more tense.

Finally, the mayor and our escort – Lettie Knack – take the stage, and once everyone stops talking the mayor begins his annual speech about Panem's history...

Lettie calls the first tribute's name: a girl named Casey Taylor. I open my mouth to announce my intention to volunteer, but an eighteen year old boy gets there first, swiftly mounting to the stage before anyone can dispute his claim.

I need to be faster!

I tune out whatever Lettie says to the boy, though I do catch his name: Trance Arkins. The escort finally walks over to the other reaping bowl- she pulls out the first name and-

Before I know it, I'm running up to the stage. Ah! What did I just do! Lettie didn't even read the name yet!

Everyone's staring at me like I'm some kind of fool so I say, with as much confidence as I can muster, "I volunteer for whoever you just drew."

Lettie stares at me for a moment, then breaks out into her enthusiastic smile again. "Aren't you eager!" she cheers, taking my arm and leading me over to stand beside Trance. "And what's your name, dear?"

"Raelle Dowd," I answer, smiling back.

I just volunteered. I just volunteered and got accepted.

I'm going to the Hunger Games.

Most of the people in the crowd are staring at me like they can't believe what just happened. The eighteen year olds in particular look rather angry.

Lance offers me a smile, which I return.

"Well, everyone, cheer for District One's lucky tributes: Trance Arkins and Raelle Dowd!" Lettie tells the crowd while Trance and I shake hands.

And it's off to the Justice Building.

In the few minutes between being shown to this room, and my family entering, I realize that I'm a little nervous – scratch that, I'm actually terrified – about what their reactions are going to be.

My parents enter first, clearly with the intention to speaking to me alone, but then Lance just happens to let go of Lucille's hand and she runs in to hug me. Raymond follows, and then Lance does too.

"Raelle, what were you _thinking_?" my mother demands, sounding angry and fearful. "You're only _thirteen_! Did you see that boy who's your partner? The other volunteers are going to be just like him!"

"He was only like two inches taller than me," I say defensively – and he was, honestly. Maybe three. And he was pretty slender. But he was definitely trained, he just wasn't the overly muscular type...

"You know what your mother means," my father puts in, frowning worriedly at me. "They have age and experience that you don't."

"His name was just like Lance's," Lucille puts in, jumping around on the sofa. At least someone is enjoying this...

"Lucille, behave," my mother scolds, and my younger sister somewhat grudgingly sits down.

"Raelle, you're gonna have to kill people in the arena if you wanna come back," Raymond says, gazing at me fearfully.

Thankfully, none of my family says anything against the idea of me coming back at all.

"She's good with a bow – better than good, she's the best at the training center," Lance remarks. "And you know she reads every spare chance she gets. Her odds are pretty good."

"Did you know about this, Lance?" my mother demands, and she and my father round on him.

"Don't get mad at him," I speak up. "I asked him not to tell you, because I knew you would react like this, instead of being supportive..." Annoyingly, I feel tears prickling at my eyes.

"Raelle..." my mother sighs, bending down slightly to hug me. I bury my face in her shoulder. "It's not that we think you can't do it... We just wish you'd waited."

My father nods, "And a bit of warning would have been nice."

My mother and I step apart, and I rub the lingering tears from my eyes. "If I'd warned you, you would have forbidden me from volunteering," I mutter by way of explanation.

"Lance, you're not to volunteer until you're seventeen," my father says sternly, glancing at him.

"Good thing I turn seventeen next year," Lance answers, grinning.

"When can _I_ volunteer?" Lucille asks. In case it wasn't obvious, she doesn't quite understand what the Hunger Games are all about, and my parents don't let us watch them until we turn eight.

"There won't be any need to, when I come back as a Victor," I tell her, when my parents exchange horrified glances.

Lucille pouts. "'kay," she mutters sulkily.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Lance says, pulling my book out of his pocket. "Here you go."

"That's your token?" my mother asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," I respond, a little defiantly. It's not like anything really _practical_ is allowed as a tribute's token. This will do just fine.

"Time's almost up," a Peacekeeper interrupts, sticking his head around the door to make sure we heard.

"Ok. Well, Raelle... Good luck," my father says, and the rest of my family echoes him. Lucille gives me a hug, as does Lance, and then both my parents. It looks like Raymond is going to leave without doing so, but he suddenly turns and hugs me fiercely.

"I know you can win, Raelle," he whispers, then runs out.

The Peacekeepers close the door again, and I'm left alone for the remainder of the hour.

I spend the car ride to the train station staring at Trance, and he does the same. He's not handsome, exactly – his features are too delicate to be considered as such. I'd say he's pretty, but only privately. I don't think boys like being called pretty, or cute. I'll just stick with calling him 'attractive'.

I'm expecting the Capitol reporters and photographers to be at the train station, and I smile and wave to them when we exit the car. Glancing at Trance, I notice that he's just giving them an almost bored look.

"Smile and wave," I mutter to him, my smile not faltering. Seriously, doesn't he want to make a good impression? Annoyingly, he only raises his hand in a lazy sort of wave. Before I can make him do more, we're inside the train.

Avox servants bring out a feast, for a late lunch. I pick at the unfamiliar foods, not wanting to try something that I don't know, even if it does look good...

"Try some of the stew," Lettie suggests, smiling. My reluctance being noticed by the other adults – though Trance seems to be ignoring me; oh well, the feeling's mutual – I'm eventually coerced into trying a bit of nearly all the dishes.

It's not so bad, most of it is actually really good, but I still don't appreciate being forced to eat.

The mentors and Lettie don't talk much about strategies, except for Trance's mentor telling us, "You're both attractive, so you should play up your good looks," when we pull into the station at the Capitol.

I blush faintly under the praise – like most of District One's past Victors, he's very attractive, so I take the compliment at face value.

"Will do," Trance responds, sounding a little bored with everything.

Trying to engage him, I add, "We're probably the best-looking pair this year." Just because we started off on the wrong foot doesn't mean I can just write him off. I need to have allies if I want to make it into the Career Alliance.

Trance smirks. "I am pretty good-looking," he agrees, and _oh_. If he's going to be like that- "But you're not so hard on the eyes yourself," he adds, possibly sensing that I'm starting to get really annoyed with him.

Before I can say anything I might come to regret, our mentors hustle us off the train, and then we're driving through the Capitol to the Training Center. The Capitol is like nothing I've ever seen; I can't even imagine living in a place like this.

And then I see my room at the Training Center. I could get used to luxury like this, I decide, flopping back onto the comfy bed. Then I spring up to explore – I have a gigantic closet (clothes all in my size) and bathroom and-

It's amazing.

After dinner, we watch the reaping recaps. I commit every face and name to memory, though Trance only seems to pay attention to the Careers.

I have to wonder if he's really serious about being in the Games, but I don't ask him. Talking to my partner is, I've already found, kind of annoying.

* * *

><p>AN: HOLY LONG CHAPTER BATMAN. I dunno, I started writing, thinking that Raelle's chapter would be shorter than Trance's - nope, nuh-uh. Hers is like 1500 words longer.

I hope everyone doesn't expect long chapters like this D: If they are, I think it'll be a while before I even get to training, much less the arena! I'm trying to write around 2500 words for each character, and from now on I am going to stick to that.

(...Probably.)

Anyway, feedback's very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	5. Determined Independent: Emi Panaday

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER THREE<br>**

__the determined independent  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Gemini "Emi" Panaday, female tribute of District Two<em>

District Two isn't like the other Districts of Panem. While District One and Five have training centers that are laughable attempts to emulate the Cultural Appreciation Center that produces my Districts tributes, they're not very... what would be a good word to describe what I mean?

Refined. That seems right.

The training center in One and Five are hardly the refined, almost seamless machine that the Cultural Appreciation Center's program is.

Not that I think the District's training program is as efficient as it could be – I can think of several things I'm going to change, when I come back as a Victor and take over the program... But it's quite effective already.

Just look at all the Victors we've produced over the years. I could list them all, but we'd be here for ages.

Let me just say this: My name is going to be the latest one to add to that list.

I'm already halfway there. Unlike in One and Five, volunteers aren't left up to chance. No, in District Two, a potential volunteer has to _qualify_ for the right to represent our District. Since there is only one training center – the CAC – it's relatively easy to organize a tournament between all the trainees who want to volunteer.

The top ten competitors are put into a free-for-all (because let's face it, the Hunger Games are not a series of one-on-one matches) and the last two tributes standing are allowed the honour of volunteering.

This year, two girls qualified for that honour: Me, Emi Panaday, and Lectua Anse, a girl in the same age class as me.

The guys had a pretty pathetic showing this year, which is why I turned them all down when they came to ask me out after I won the tournament. Yeah, like I'm going to go out with losers like that. Besides, I need to focus on winning the Hunger Games.

I allow myself the luxury of sleeping in just this once. I was out at a party with my friends (celebrating the fact that I'm going to be volunteering today) so I got back home rather late. Or early, depending on how you look at it.

I wake up around nine – not that late, for a typical teenager, but pretty late for someone who starts training at eight every day.

Ever since Warren eloped with his cougar of a wife, I've had the main bathroom all to myself, and that's just the way I like it. I'll freely admit, I'm a rather spoiled girl, so having to share a bathroom with my older brother was always an annoyance.

Now, I can take as long as I want.

After I'm done with my shower and dressed in my reaping outfit – a black Strander dress, the golden locket (it's empty) that I've had as long as I can remember, and a pair of white ballet flats with gold bows – I stand staring at myself in the mirror. I have a rather youthful face, and since I'm only four inches above five feet, people sometimes take me for younger than my seventeen years.

I may not be that tall, but that doesn't have any bearing on my strength. Although I generally dislike sticking with things for longer than a few weeks – thanks to my parents providing me with anything I could want, I have a tendency to get rid of something as soon as I get tired of it – my training at the CAC is one of the few things that I have stuck with, wholeheartedly.

I don't bother brushing my hair – it's too curly to be tamed, and I think it's a waste of time anyway. I do try to cover up the dusting of freckles that I absolutely hate, but it's always an uphill battle.

Of course, opposition just makes me more stubborn about following through, so in the end I do manage to cover the freckles up with makeup. On the downside, my face is now noticeably tanner than the rest of my skin.

Well, it's not too noticeable, and I'm not about to wash it off now, after spending all that time applying it.

"Emi! Are you going to eat something before you go?" my mother calls, and I realize that I am a bit hungry.

"Coming," I answer, adjusting my locket slightly before leaving the room.

My parents are sitting at the dining room table, a lavish brunch set out before them, which is a bit of a surprise. Well, it's not every day your only daughter volunteers for the Hunger Games.

Since Warren eloped with his wife (she's at least twice his age, but who's counting?) my parents have focused all of their hopes on me, but since I like to be the center of attention, this suits me just fine. The three of us spend the meal discussing the upcoming Games, my strategy, the competitor that I know (Lectua) and other details like that.

"So, are you meeting up with your friends? Umm, what were their names? Mason and-"

"I'm not friends with them anymore," I interrupt. "But I'm meeting up with Amelia and Chase at the reaping in-" I glance at the clock, "-half an hour."

"Oh, well you'd better get going-"

"Ok. I'll see you later, mom. Bye, dad!"

The walk to the town square takes about fifteen minutes. I pass a few kids who I only vaguely recognize from training, so I only give them insincere smiles when they greet me, and hurry past them.

Amelia and Chase are already waiting in the seventeen year old section when I show up, even though I'm fifteen minutes early myself. That kind of irks me – I feel like they're trying too hard.

I sign in, then give them a wide berth and make my way to the front of the section. Lectua is already there, looking rather bored. Surprisingly, she's alone too; usually she has a few of the other orphans from the CAC with her.

I didn't really know her before we both earned the right to volunteer, because the orphaned trainees who live in the CAC and the ones with families who don't live there don't usually mix. I don't really know her that well now, either; I think we're a bit alike – we could probably be friends, even – but since we're both going into the same arena, getting close isn't such a good idea.

I like her because she's even shorter than I am, maybe an inch taller than five feet, but I don't have a good grasp on her personality, so I would never trust her.

"Hey, Lectua," I greet her, and she doesn't so much as twitch. I assume that means she noticed my approach.

"Hey, Gemini," she responds, turning to look up at me. Not many people have to look up at me, and I find myself enjoying the rare situation.

"It's Emi," I say firmly.

"Emi," she repeats, turning to look back at the stage. The numerous Victors from our District are all assembled on stage, so all that's really missing is the appearance of our escort and the mayor.

I'm about to speak again, but Lectua beats me to it. "So, do you want to just go up there? There's not much point in waiting around, we already know we're going-"

"Of course not," I interrupt, shocked in spite of myself. "You know the law – no training before entering the Hunger Games."

Lectua shrugs. "Do you think they'd enforce it..?" she muses, glancing at me out of the corner of her eyes. Both our eyes are brown, like the majority of the people in the District, but my hair is dark red, whereas Lectua's is white blonde.

"Yes!" I snap. "That would be such a blatant gesture, people wouldn't be able to ignore it!"

"I'd like to see the look on people's faces if we did something like that," the other girl remarks. She sounds so calm about it too- seriously, I didn't know she was _insane_.

"There wouldn't be any _we_. It would just be _you_," I insist.

Lectua smirks. "Ah, I'm just joking. Don't get so worked up about it, Gemini-"

"It's _Emi_," I repeat, slowly and carefully.

"Emi."

I resist the urge to smack her – no fighting before the Games, and all that. Ugh. I can't see Lectua's face, her long hair is obscuring it, but I imagine that she's smirking.

Fortunately, the mayor and our escort – a man in his thirties named Duo Trim; he never wears a shirt, the better to show off his _really_ weird tattoos – mount the stage, and the reaping really begins.

As soon as the mayor steps away from the podium, Duo takes her place.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Two!" the man cries. His high-pitched Capitol accent has a hint of a lisp, and he seems more flamboyant than every other Capitol citizen I've ever seen (granted, not many, but still). I suspect that he's gay.

Come to think of it, isn't the Head Gamemaker gay too?

Well, whatever.

"Is everyone ready for the 324th Hunger Games?" Duo continues, making his way over to the first reaping bowl. "Our lucky female tribute this year is... Trace Granite! Where are you, girl?" he calls, looking out at the crowd expectantly.

Unlike other Districts, the Careers of Two wait until the tributes have been called up and the escort asks for volunteers before stepping forward.

A girl from the fourteen year old section climbs to the stage, looking a little bit nervous.

"Smile for the camera, darling," Duo insists, nagging at her until she cracks a shaky smile. I roll my eyes – I wish he would just get on with it already.

"And the lucky guy is... Cameron Stone! Come on up, Cameron!"

I recognize his name – he's an eighteen year old, one of the trainees who made it to the last round of the tournament. I'm the one who took him out. Well, isn't this ironic?

Cameron just looks really pissed. He glares at Duo when the man gets near, and the escort seems to catch on that he's not going to be able to cajole Cameron into smiling for the camera.

"Well, then! Any volunteers, District Two?" Duo singsongs, making the words sound like a rhetorical question. "Is anyone going to take the place of Miss Trace? Hmmm?"

Lectua glances at me, then steps forward with a hand raised. "I'll volunteer for her, Duo!" she calls, like they're old friends or something. Duo is, of course, delighted.

"Well, come on up to the stage, dear! And what's your name?"

"I'm Lectua Anse," she introduces with a smirk. Then she adds, in the most deadpan voice I've heard from her, "the next Hunger Games Victor."

Duo laughs. "I'm sure you are, Lectua!" Trace takes this opportunity to slip off the stage and return to the safety of the crowd.

"And is anyone going to volunteer for Cameron? I sure hope so, he doesn't look very pleased to be up here~!" Duo announces, his back to Cameron so he doesn't see the death glare that he's receiving.

"I volunteer, as the second tribute of District Two," I announce, stepping forward. Duo waves me up onto the stage, and I purposely bump my shoulder against Cameron as we pass on the stairs. He snarls almost silently, but I hear it and have stifle a snicker.

"I'm Emi Panaday," I declare, before Duo can ask my name.

"O-kay! Give it up for your tributes, District Two: Lectua Anse and Emi Panaday!" Duo cheers, holding one of mine and Lectua's arms up.

As the crowd cheers (some more sincerely than others), he releases our arms and Lectua and I shake hands. Her hand is calloused, like mine, but her grip is rather loose.

We're led off the stage, to the Justice Building, and directed to separate rooms.

I spare a minute to think that Lectua probably won't have any visitors, before I realize that I don't even care.

My parents show up, my mother a little bit tearful in that I'm-so-proud way, and my father a bit gruff as if he's trying to hold back tears.

"My little girl..." my mother sniffles, hugging me. I let her, but only for about three seconds before I pull away. I fix my father with a stare before he gets any hugging ambitions.

"So, Emi... What's your token? I brought-"

"I'm going to use this locket. I've had it with me since I was born, so I thought it's only fitting to keep it with me in the arena," I explain, before my dad can pull out whatever he thought was a good token for me.

This brings more sniffles from my mother, who's never this emotional unless it has to do with me, her baby girl. Well, maybe Warren too. That could be why he left as soon as he could. Whatever.

"What's that weapon you're always telling us about-"

"The sword," I say, as patiently as possible. I'm good with most weapons, but the sword is my favourite and my best.

"Well, dear, I feel like you're all grown up... There's not much more we can do for you..." my father sighs.

"I can take care of myself," I agree, glancing at the clock out of the corner of my eye. It's not that I'm not grateful to my parents for everything they've done for me, but I wish they'd stop making such a big deal of everything.

After a bit more emotional conversation, the Peacekeepers usher my parents out.

Amelia and Chase replace them.

"Emi, there you are!" Amelia says. "Chase and I were waiting, but we didn't see you sign in!"

"Well, I definitely signed in," I answer, shrugging.

"Did you see us?" Chase asks.

"Yeah," I agree. "I didn't feel like talking, though." Honestly, I'm becoming bored with this whole conversation. I've lost all interest in spending time with the pair of them.

"Why didn't you come over?" Amelia asks, starting to get upset.

"I said I didn't feel like it," I repeat. Both of them open their mouths to say something, but I cut them off. "I feel like you two are just dragging me down. I'm trying to be happy about volunteering, and you two just show up and make everything about you."

"Wh- But- Emi, we're your friends-"

"Not anymore," I inform her. "Can you go, now? Or do I need to ask those Peacekeepers to make you leave..."

"Let's go, Chase." Amelia grabs her arm and drags her off.

"Bye," I say, right before they close the door.

I spend the rest of the hour absently opening and closing my locket. Over the years, I've considered what to put in it, but nothing has a really lasting meaning to me. Or at least, nothing that's suitable to be put in a locket.

Lectua and I are led to a car, which drives us to the train station. On the way, Lectua asks, "So, how were your goodbyes?"

I look at her strangely, but answer, "All right."

"Yeah, mine were pretty intense."

She seems totally serious, but I can't think of anyone who would come to visit her.

We spend the rest of the car ride in silence. The transition from the car's silence, to the almost deafening clamour of the reporters and photographers at the train station is a bit, well, deafening.

One question in particular sticks with me, although I don't answer any of the shouted questions. Lectua seems to be enjoying answering them, though.

The question was: What do you think of the trend of shorter volunteers this year?

Seriously, what kind of question is that? Just because Lectua and I are both under five and a half feet...

That annoys me. But it makes me wonder – are District One's tributes short, or something? Maybe it's better not to try to understand what goes on inside a Capitol citizen's head.

The mentors this year are pretty taciturn, and I don't really feel like talking, so it's up to Lectua and Duo to carry the conversation on the train. We arrive in the Capitol in the late afternoon, and from there it's off to the Training Center.

We eat dinner in the dining room, and it's the most delicious meal I've ever tasted. But, that's to be expected from a District person arriving in the Capitol.

Then we watch the reaping recap, and sure enough, the pair of tributes from District One is only average in height. Then I'm annoyed at myself for even considering the random question from the train station. The only thing that stands out about them (well, they're both really attractive, but that's pretty par for the course, coming from District One) is that the female tribute is only thirteen years old.

Then the pair from District Five comes up – there's a fourteen year old boy who looks closer to eight, and he's probably not even five feet tall. Despite being reaped, not a volunteer, he looks trained. His partner's height is more average, though.

The pair from District Seven is also average in height. If anything, the two male volunteers this year are kind of short, for guys.

... Seriously, why am I even noticing stuff like this still?

I make a mental note to check out some of the other, reaped tributes – the boy from District Four looks tough, and the one from Ten looks interesting, among others...

Duo sends us to bed around ten, telling us that we need to be up bright and early tomorrow, for the chariot ride.

Lectua helpfully points out that it doesn't take place until the late afternoon.

I don't stick around to see how that conversation ends. I just bid everyone good night and disappear into my room.

* * *

><p>AN: Whoo, almost didn't think I was going to make my self-imposed deadline of two reapings a day, haha. ;;;

I feel like I harped on about the Careers' heights a bit too much, ha ~ Seriously though, none of them is taller than 5'8" - though three of them are that tall. I just found that kind of funny. (Not that there's anything wrong with not being taller than that or something. Just thought it was an interesting coincidence.)

Anyway. Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter. I still need a few more tributes... Or I could just make a couple of bloodbath characters. What does everyone think about that? I'm pretty 'meh' either way.

Feedback's pretty much my favourite thing, btw. ;) (And I don't use a beta, so if you spot any mistakes, feel free to point them out!)


	6. Orphaned Instigator: Lectua Anse

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<br>**

__the orphaned instigator  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Lectua Anse, female tribute of District Two<em>

I'm not sure what the protocol is for dealing with orphans in other Districts, but here in District Two, any child without a capable legal guardian is taken from their home and placed in the Cultural Appreciation Center (the CAC). This ensures that there are always at least two capable trainees to represent District Two in the Hunger Games.

In case it isn't obvious, the CAC is the district-sponsored center where children are trained to volunteer for the Hunger Games.

So why is it called the _Cultural Appreciation_ Center? Well, in the past, people of all different cultures relied on 'crude' weaponry (i.e. swords, knives, etc.) and their own skills to survive. By teaching children about that, it's giving them an appreciation to the cultures of the past.

It's really quite a cutting edge place, especially considering how insular Panem is. It's an honour to attend the classes offered by the CAC. (No one dares to point out that, for us orphans anyway, it's not a choice.)

Yeah, I don't believe that bull either, and I've been hearing it for almost as long as I can remember. My parents died when I was very young, and I have only a few memories of them. Ever since, I've been living at the CAC and training for the Hunger Games.

I have a grandfather (maternal, for those who were wondering) but he's pretty decrepit and frail, from years spent working in the District's mines, so that's why I was placed in the CAC.

Breakfast in the CAC is always at seven thirty sharp; you can show up after that, but it's over at eight. If you don't show up on time, you risk a) missing out on the decent food or b) not getting any food at all.

I'm always the first one at breakfast – I wake up at five every morning. Why so early? Well, I like having the communal showers to myself, and that gives me some spare time to do... other things. Like pranks.

After I finish my shower and get dressed into the standard training clothes – a shabby track suit – I sneak into the basement. Not such a hard feat, considering no one's stirring at five thirty in the morning.

Most kids wouldn't have the guts to do what I'm about to do, but then, most kids don't qualify for the Hunger Games either.

I'm not most kids, obviously.

A few days ago, I swiped a bottle of industrial strength red food colouring from the kitchens. Now, I intend to dump it into the hot water heaters that supply the whole CAC.

I figure it'll be a nice going-away present for everyone at the CAC. Assuming I come back (which I'm pretty confident I will) it'll be as a Victor, and I won't have to live in this crappy complex anymore. Even if the instructors or the other staff pin this incident on me (unlikely, since I'm just an innocent bystander in situations like these, at least in their eyes), it's not like they'll be able to do anything. Today's my last day at the CAC.

I empty the entire bottle of food colouring into the reservoir – I assume that the water will only be a little pink rather than bright red, but hey. It's still going to entertaining, I'm sure.

I wipe the bottle clean of any fingerprints – it doesn't hurt to be paranoid – and dump it in the trash near the boys' wing of the CAC.

As I make my way to the mess hall, I happen to pass by the showers for the younger girls. I hear the hiss of water being turned on, and then several shrieks.

I duck my head, allowing my long blonde hair to obscure my features as I smirk.

Despite the fact that it's fifteen minutes before seven, I enter the mess hall anyway. I always get the best seat this way, and I can watch the other orphans walk in.

A group of younger girls – they're probably between eight and ten – walks in about ten minutes later. Their skin has a faintly pinkish tinge, and one of the girls has blond hair – a rarity in District Two. Well, you can't really tell because it looks pink, now.

Hmm, maybe I should have dumped the food colouring yesterday night, after everyone was asleep? That way I wouldn't be one of the only people unaffected.

Well, it's too late now.

As more and more of the CAC trainees file in – you'd be surprised how many orphans there are in this District – I notice that the later ones don't seem to have taken showers. I guess someone warned them. It's a bit unfortunate, because some of them really could use the shower.

Ah, well. I join the line up that's beginning to form at the front of the room. There's a bit of friendly ribbing going on, older trainees shoving their younger counterparts out of the way, the usual. An older boy – he's probably a year or two younger than me – shoves _me_ out of the way, only to freeze when I turn to stare at him.

"O-oh. Lectua! Sorry, I didn't- Um, yeah, I'll just- Sorry," the boy stammers, hastily backing up as he recognizes me as one of the two tributes who won the annual tournament and qualified for the Hunger Games.

Really. I'm a bit over five feet tall, so people often mistake me as being younger than I am. It helps me to pull of my act of innocence, but at times like these, it can be annoying.

There's an abundance of food that the cooking staff seldom provides today – but it _is_ a special occasion, after all. I take as much as I want, then return to my seat. A few girls in my year sit down with me, but I'm not really interested in making small talk.

They talk about today's reaping, and the strange incident with the water. I only listen with half an ear, nodding at appropriate intervals.

"Hey," I say, and the other girls immediately fall silent. "Who do you think has better odds of winning, me or Emi?" I ask, naming the other trainee who qualified to volunteer this year.

After a chorus of assurances that it's me, of course, I add, "No, seriously. I want to hear your opinions on this."

They fall silent, then one girl with black hair remarks, "I don't know. In training, and during the tournament... I think you two were really evenly matched."

The others nod in agreement, and then a brunette adds, "But you're more unpredictable. You're good at not getting caught. I don't know much about Emi, but... That's one advantage you have."

Well. That's about the same conclusion I had come to.

"Thanks, girls," I say, offering them a smile. "I'll see you guys at the reaping later, maybe. I have to go."

"Bye Lectua!" they say, or variations of that anyway.

My grandfather lives in a home for, well, decrepit old people. I think he might have gone through training when he was young, but I never really get a clear answer when I ask him. He's kind of senile. Whenever I go over there, he insists on teaching me how to cook 'the old-fashioned way', over an open fire.

It's like attending a CAC class, almost. I don't mind though; it's nice to spend time with him, even if he doesn't make sense the majority of the time.

The receptionist informs me that Mr. Vale (my mother's maiden name) is outside in the gardens when I ask her, so I make my way to the back of the building. Sure enough, he's there... Puttering about gathering various plants to make a fire.

I'm pretty sure that's not an acceptable activity, but whatever. The old people here are hardly allowed to do anything. I join in, helping him make a decent pile of kindling – as I've said, it's not unlike attending the classes at the CAC.

"Livinia?" my grandfather croaks, squinting at me.

"No, it's Lectua," I answer, helping him over to one of the many benches. Our makeshift fire is catching beautifully. "Her daughter, remember?"

"Oh... Lectua." He nods, slumping a little in his seat. Then he perks up again, "Did you come for another cooking lesson?"

"Yes; it's my last, today," I tell him. "I'm volunteering."

"Eh? Volunteering?" he repeats, frowning in a disapproving manner.

"For the Hunger Games," I confirm with a nod.

He sighs. "I've told you, Livinia, the Hunger Games are dangerous."

I roll my eyes. Everything is dangerous. Being a Peacekeeper is potentially dangerous. Working in the mines is dangerous – just look at my grandfather. Volunteering for the Hunger Games is definitely dangerous.

"I'll be ok, grandfather," I assure him, not bothering to correct him as I pat his shoulder in what I think is a comforting manner.

He nods, though he doesn't appear to be convinced.

"Do you want me to come say goodbye?" he asks.

"You don't have to. I know you're not very mobile," I add. "I thought we could just say goodbye now."

He nods again. He does that a lot. "Goodbye, Lectua," he says, getting my name right for once. He puts an arm around me, which is as close to a hug as we've ever gotten.

Not that I'm complaining.

After we spend a bit more time talking – no cooking lesson today – I see that I should be getting back to the CAC to change for the reaping.

The District pays for a uniform of sorts that all the CAC orphans wear to the reapings. I've said the same one for three years now; that promised growth spurt my health instructors always went on about never materialized. I knew most of the stuff that we were told was nonsense.

It really is a uniform – a white blouse (or dress shirt, in the males' cases) and black slacks, along with a pair of black leather shoes that the trainees are expected to take care of.

Since today is the only real day off that we orphans ever get, the halls are mostly deserted. I don't know where everyone is, but it's not here. I can understand that. It gets boring staying within the walls of the CAC after a while.

I walk to the reaping by myself, only to realize that I'm really early. They're just finishing up with the stage and separating the town square into sections for the age groups and the other people.

I'm the first person to sign in, and I make my way to the front of the seventeen year old section. I could have gone back to the CAC, but there's really nothing for me to do.

People start showing up after a while, children, adults and past Victors alike. I watch as the numerous chairs on the stage start to fill – only our District has such a large number of champions.

I wonder what drove them to complete the training at the CAC, and volunteer for the Hunger Games. Sure, there's the life of luxury and indulgence that awaits a Victor, but you can't get around that ridiculous mortality rate. On a good year, one-twelfth of the tributes survive. On a bad, one-twenty-fourth.

But I guess I can't judge them – I mean, I'm volunteering this year.

What are my motivations? I guess I just... Want to see what the Capitol's really like. I want to see how its air-headed citizens will react if I do something shocking, or unexpected, or 'unrefined'. I've always imagined that that's how they think of the people in the Districts: unrefined.

Most of the other seventeen year olds give me a wide berth, but I notice someone comes to stand beside me at the front. I glance at this intruder out of the corner of my eye – it's Emi Panaday, my District partner.

Her full name is Gemini, but she insists on being called Emi. I decide right then that I'll call her Gemini just to see what her reaction will be. Assuming she speaks to me, that is. I'm not about to start a conversation, since it looks like the reaping is going to begin for real soon.

"Hey, Lectua," Emi remarks at length.

I turn to look up at her – though it's not as far as I usually have to. She's all of three inches taller than me. Ha. "Hey, Gemini," I answer.

Predictably, she corrects me. "It's Emi."

Well, that's a bit disappointing. I turn to look back at the stage. "Emi," I repeat dutifully. Seriously, what's the hold up? Why haven't the mayor and our escort, Duo, shown up yet? What's the point of waiting, the outcome of this reaping is already determined.

"So, do you want to just go up there?" I ask idly. "There's not much point in waiting around, we already know we're going-"

"Of course not," she interrupts, sounding scandalized. "You know the law – no training before entering the Hunger Games."

I roll my eyes and shrug. Like the Capitol is going to do anything to us. We're the toughest Careers, although I'll admit this year Emi and I don't exactly look it. "Do you think they'd enforce it..?" I inquire, glancing at her to watch her reaction. I notice that her face looks a bit darker than the rest of her skin – something seems off about her. Oh. Right. She has freckles.

I assume she doesn't like them? I'll have to ask her about it later.

"Yes!" she snaps, looking a little upset. "That would be such a blatant gesture, people wouldn't be able to ignore it!"

Too bad. I mean, if she adheres so strictly to the rules now, what's she going to do in the Hunger Games? There's hardly any rules in the arena, and most of them can be broken. "I'd like to see the look on people's faces if we did something like that," I add honestly.

"There wouldn't be any _we_. It would just be _you_," Emi informs me.

I smirk at her. "Ah, I'm just joking. Don't get so worked up about it, Gemini-"

"It's _Emi_," she repeats, enunciating the syllables clearly.

So predictable. "Emi," I reiterate, watching her visibly rein in her annoyance.

The mayor and Duo finally appear and climb to the stage. After the mayor gives (what I suspect to be) an abbreviated history of Panem, and reads the Treaty of Treason, Duo takes the microphone.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Two!" the man cries. Like all of the Capitol citizens I've ever seen, he's very enthusiastic about the Hunger Games. "Is everyone ready for the 324th Hunger Games?"

He walks over to the first reaping bowl without waiting for a reply. "Our lucky female tribute this year is... Trace Granite! Where are you, girl?" he calls, pocketing the small slip of paper that, in most Districts, would have been a death sentence.

Luckily for Trace, Emi or I will be volunteering for her. She still looks nervous though, and it's only with a great deal of effort that Duo convinces her to smile for the camera.

Cameron Stone turns out to be the guy who gets reaped. Talk about ironic. The final three in the last round of the tournament consisted of me, Emi and Cameron. He was in the process of trying to convince Emi that they should team up on me and volunteer for the Games together when she knocked him out.

I'm guessing he still hasn't gotten over it, because he glares at Emi and me when he gets on stage. Duo wisely doesn't ask him to smile.

"Well, then! Any volunteers, District Two?" Duo singsongs. "Is anyone going to take the place of Miss Trace? Hmmm?"

I glance at Emi, to see if she wants to go first. Nope, doesn't look like it. I raise my hand and step forward. "I'll volunteer for her, Duo!" I tell him, acting like we're on first name terms.

"Well, come on up to the stage, dear! And what's your name?" he asks, waving me up to the stage.

"I'm Lectua Anse," I answer, smirking. Then, because it's practically tradition (but I want to put my own spin on things) I add in a bored voice, "the next Hunger Games Victor."

Duo laughs. "I'm sure you are, Lectua!" he agrees, and then I watch Emi volunteer for Cameron. He looks furious. That's a pretty big slap in the face, I tell you. Maybe Emi isn't quite as predictable as I first thought.

The escort grabs my right arm and Emi's left one, and holds them up in the air. "O-kay! Give it up for your tributes, District Two: Lectua Anse and Emi Panaday!"

I was half-expecting Emi to try and crush my hand, but her grip is just firm. Well, it's too late to correct my own too-loose grip.

I've never been in the Justice Building, before. I sit on the couch, idly picking at a loose thread as I wait for the hour to be up. No one comes to visit me, but I wasn't expecting any visitors anyway.

On the car ride to the train station, I ask, "So, how were your goodbyes?"

Emi looks confused and a bit annoyed. "All right."

I nod. "Yeah, mine were pretty intense." I was wondering if she would ask me about them (and I would have confessed that they didn't actually happen) but she didn't.

The reporters at the train station are asking all sorts of stupid and random questions, and I do my best to give them appropriately stupid and random answers in response.

"So, what do you think of the claims about gender bias in the Hunger Games-"

"Bias for females, or males?" I answer.

"Any comments on your District partner, Lectua? Are you mad that she's taller than you-"

"Not really. I'm more annoyed that everything seems to be made for tall people."

"What are your views on Duo Trim-"

"He's quite a character. I think he might be my hero."

"Can I get an opinion on the trend of shorter volunteers, this year-"

"I'm glad that the shorter half of the population is finally getting some good representation."

The train ride passes quickly enough. Duo and I build up quite a rapport, and I give him a bit of nonsense advice about how he can break up with his boyfriend over the lavish meal we get.

The Training Center is totally different than the CAC. I get the whole room to myself, instead of sharing a dorm with five other girls, and there are tons of clothes, not to mention there's great food in large quantities.

We watch the reaping recap, but I decide to reserve my judgements until I see the other tributes in training.

"Well, you girls better go off to bed! You don't want to sleep in and miss the chariot ride, do you?" Duo remarks at the late, late hour of... ten.

"The chariot ride starts at five," I point out, unable to resist. Who sleeps _that_ late, anyway?

Duo nods gravely. "Exactly. You don't want to miss it!"

"No, I don't," I agree, deciding to drop the subject. I don't know what to think of that – does that means Capitol citizens sleep until then? I bid the mentors and Duo good night and go to my room.

* * *

><p>AN: That's it for D2! Next up, D3. Hopefully I'll get the first one up tonight, but I don't know if I'll manage it.

Feel free to leave some feedback. I'd appreciate it ~ ;)


	7. Curious Youngster: Keaton Carver

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<br>**

__the curious youngster  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Keaton Carver, male tribute of District Three<em>

My dad drinks, a lot. When he's sober (which doesn't happen very often) he's not a bad guy – he's a lot like my Uncle Took, actually. When he does drink (a nightly occurrence) he's a real... well, Uncle Took says I shouldn't use that word.

When he drinks, he starts in on my mom. He never hits her, or me, but he's really _mean_. He tells her (and me) that we're worthless, and that he hates the sight of us.

I mean, that's not so bad. He's drunk when he says it, so I can tell myself _he doesn't know what he's saying_.

My mom, on the other hand, is just plain mean, all the time. For no reason. Well, that's not quite right: I'm the reason. See, she's a seamstress, and a talented one at that. But we live in District Three, and the demand for seamstresses is just not there. About thirteen years ago, she had the chance to take over the local business.

But then she got pregnant with me, and the opportunity passed her by. Now, she works part time and has to take whatever work she can get.

Usually I can just tune her out, but it really gets me when she says _I just wish you'd never been born_!

Today is the reaping day. Although I've been alive for eleven others, this one is special because... Well, because it's the first one where _my_ name is going to be in one of the giant reaping bowls.

And it's not just in there once, nope. My parents had me take out three tesserae. That means there's a total of _four_ slips of paper with my name on them in the bowl. I mean, I've seen the thing – four slips really isn't that much. The odds of being picked are pretty low. But I can't help feeling nervous and jittery. I can't stop moving, and I stay up half the night thinking about the Hunger Games.

I've seen them on television. I'd be dead in about two seconds if I had to enter the arena.

I'm still awake by the time the sun starts to paint the sky pink and orange, so I decide to just get up and slip out before my parents wake up. I'd just annoy them with my restlessness anyway.

Uncle Took's house is also in the poor section of the District, just like ours, but it's near the more prosperous end, if that makes sense. I know the path to his home by heart – I could probably follow it walking backwards with my eyes closed.

Now there's an interesting thought. I'll have to try it, sometime.

Uncle Took entrusted me with a key to his house, so I let myself in and set about making some breakfast.

About half an hour later, Uncle Took wanders out, stifling a yawn.

"Thought I heard someone cooking," he remarks, grinning. "What's up, Keaton?" he asks, his gaze sharpening as he notices my distress.

I shrug. "Couldn't sleep," I answer. "Hey, Uncle Took? How did you feel when you were in your first reaping?" I ask, falling back on my habit of asking questions.

My uncle ruffles my hair and takes over frying the eggs I had started. "I was pretty nervous. My parents made this big meal... And I threw it all up about ten minutes after I was done eating it," he remembers ruefully. "But I wasn't picked in the seven years I was eligible, and neither will you be."

I nod. "What are my odds, again?" He's told me before, but I want to hear it again.

"Well... There's only four entries for you, Keaton. Most, if not all, of the children in this section of the District have a similar number, and that only increases as they get older, because they have to take out even more tesserae. How many kids do you think there are, Keaton?"

I tilt my head, considering the question. There's about thirty kids in my class, in school. Two thirds of them are from the poor side of the District. There are three classes for each year, and there's six years, so... That means 180 kids who are eligible, 120 of which have similar odds as my own. That's not counting the other schools, so...

Uncle Took pats my head again. "Let's say there are 600 eligible children, 100 of which are your age. Assuming the ratio of children with tesserae to children without tesserae is two to one, that means 66 percent of them have extra entries. The average family has two kids; the average kids takes out a tessera for each of their family members. Therefore, most of them would have five entries."

I nod when he glances at me to see if I'm keeping up.

"Five times 66... What is that again?" he pauses to let me figure it out.

"330," I answer after a few moments.

"Right! So that means there's about 363 entries, including the single entries of the children who didn't take out any tesserae."

"But you have to think about the fact that the bowls are split between boys and girls," I point out. "So that means there's about... um... 182 entries for boys."

Uncle Took nods, conceding the point. "So, in your age group alone, you have a 4/182 chance of being reaped. That's a little over 2% – and that's not including all the other entries in the bowl, from other age groups," he adds. "Factor those in... Well, the odds of you being picked are negligible."

The matter of fact way that Uncle Took explains it makes me feel a lot better.

"So, feeling hungry now, eh?" Uncle Took asks, flipping the eggs over one last time. "Want to set the table, Keaton?"

I nod and do as he asked. I don't know why, but these eggs are some of the best that I've ever tasted. "Hey, Uncle Took? How come we have to bring the eggs in from District Ten?" I ask around a mouthful of food.

My uncle gives a rueful chuckle. "Haven't we been over this before, Keaton?"

"But why?" I repeat, undaunted.

"Animal husbandry is District Ten's industry, just like manufacturing is District Three's. That's just how it is, Keaton," Uncle Took says, like he always does when I ask questions about the industries of the other Districts.

"But _why_? Wouldn't it make more sense for us to raise our own chickens, and keep our own eggs?" I persist.

"That's the Capitol's plan," he responds, and like always his grin doesn't seem to reach his eyes when he tells me this part.

I huff. "Just because they have to rely on us Districts to support them. They make us weak like they are," I mutter, dragging my fork through the yolk that's left on my plate.

"Keaton, you can't say things like that," Uncle Took scolds. "Tell me you've never said something like that to someone other than me."

"I haven't, honest," I assure him, sulking. "When I grow up, I'm gonna make things more, uhhh. What's the word? It's not effective, but it's like that..."

"Efficient," Uncle Took supplies.

"Yeah! Efficient. I'll learn about all the stuff there is to know about factories and electronics and then things will make sense," I finish triumphantly.

We spend a bit more time discussing things, and then Uncle Took tells me to get dressed for the reaping.

"Um, okay. Can you come too?" I ask, not wanting to see my parents alone. I don't tell him this, but I think he understands my motives anyway.

"Sure, just give me a couple of minutes to get ready," my uncle responds. He disappears into his bedroom, and I busy myself with cleaning the dishes. I know that District Three produces machines called dishwashers, but only the richest of the rich own them. I get the feeling nearly every home in the Capitol has one, however.

Uncle Took returns, snappy in a black suit. It's a little shabby, but that's a word you could describe pretty much every aspect of District Three: shabby.

My mother made me my reaping outfit out of large scraps of fabric she had left over from her job. As a result, I get to wear black shorts (there wasn't enough to make pants) and a green shirt.

My parents are nowhere to be found when Uncle Took and I get to my house, so I hurry to my room and change. I should probably take a shower or something, because my hair is pretty greasy, but there's really no time. We talked for longer than I thought.

The square is really crowded when Uncle Took and I get there, and the line-up to sign in is pretty long. Despite not having to sign in like me, my uncle stays with me the whole time. The time passes more quickly with us chatting, but as soon as I get to my age section, all my fears return full force. I search for Uncle Took in the crowd of adults, but I can't find him.

Looking at all the kids milling around – most of them looking as nervous as I feel, since this will be our first reaping – I have to wonder why people have kids. What if they got reaped? Why would anyone want to go through that pain?

I know that other families are much better examples of, well, a family, than mine is, so I don't understand why they would have children knowing the risks. Even the richer families aren't safe – though their children's names are only in the reaping bowl the minimum number of times, I'd swear that at least one in four tributes from District Three comes from the upper-class families.

I make a mental note to ask Uncle Took about that later – as someone who doesn't have any kids, surely he would know the answer to that question.

The mayor and our escort, a normal-looking (no, really; he's so normal that a person's eyes just skip over him) man named Yarmouth Trivial, walk onto the stage and begin the proceedings.

I don't really pay attention to what the mayor is saying – I've heard it before, I already know what the message is.

I do perk up a bit when Yarmouth takes the microphone.

"Good afternoon, District Three," he says calmly. I've watched the reaping recap on television, and most of the other escorts are really bubbly and excited about drawing names and whatnot. Yarmouth is just... calm. Normal. Without waiting for a reply, he continues, "We'll start with the ladies, I think, this year." He walks sedately over to the first reaping bowl.

There's definitely an air of... not anticipation, exactly. More like taking a deep breath to steel yourself before you do something that's not going to be pleasant.

"... Our female tribute this year is Alivya Tarrow. Miss Tarrow, please come to the stage," Yarmouth informs us.

From the seventeen year old section, a girl that looks vaguely familiar – she lives on my street, I think – slowly walks to the stage. She's immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place. Her eyes are wide, but otherwise her expression is completely controlled.

There's a smattering of half-hearted applause, which Yarmouth acknowledges with a serious nod of his head.

"And our male tribute will be..." He makes his way to the other bowl and plucks a name from the top of the pile. "... Keaton Carver. Please come up, Mr. Carver."

Wait, that's _my _name. But the odds- Uncle Took told me- Why did Yarmouth pick _my_ name?

Someone pushes me forward, and I stagger slightly before forcing myself to make the long walk to the stage. The twelve year old section is, naturally, farthest from the stairs...

"Well, District Three-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Trivial?" I say, patting his arm to gain his attention.

"... Yes, Mr. Carver?" Yarmouth asks, looking faintly surprised.

"Why did you pick my name? Why didn't you put your hand in the pile, like you did with the girls? What made you pick from the top?" I ask.

The escort blinks once, twice, before answering. "It seemed like the natural thing to do, dear boy."

I nod. "Right. Okay. Natural. Got it," I say.

Apparently thinking the issue resolved, Yarmouth turns to address the crowd once more. "As I was saying... Any volunteers this year, District Three?"

None, of course – not that I was expecting there to be any.

The wait for someone – preferably Uncle Took, even though he did lie to me – to come visit me is nearly interminable. I pace around, examining the various aspects of the room that the Peacekeepers led me to – I doubt I'll get another chance to be in an office in the Justice Building ever again.

I want to ask if this is room is used at any time of the year other than for one of District Three's tributes to say their farewells in. Farewells, not goodbyes – the dismal record of Victors from my District tells a person all they need to know about my or Alivya's odds of returning.

The carpet is red, like blood. I shudder at the morbid places my mind is already going to. I can't imagine what it'll be like in the arena.

Ok, I'm imagining it. I wish I hadn't had that thought.

The door opening provides a welcome distraction from my mind.

It's Uncle Took. I immediately run over to him and he kneels down to hug me.

"Keaton..." he sighs, and it's almost easy for me to imagine that I'm safe with his strong arms around me.

"You said- you said I wouldn't be reaped," I whisper, unable to keep the accusatory note from my voice. "Why did you _lie_, Uncle Took?"

"Keaton- I didn't lie to you," he says, sounding upset. Well, good. That makes two of us. "I honestly believed you wouldn't be reaped- But that doesn't mean you don't have a chance. Kids your age have won the Hunger Games before," he tries to assure me.

"Yeah, because they got paired with Careers who took pity on them!" I snap, pulling away. "That's not going to happen with me. I'm going to die, aren't I? The odds of my survival are less than one percent."

Uncle Took runs a hand through his hair. "Look, Keaton, you do have a chance," he insists. "You're smart – if you keep your head down, people will overlook you. You can fit in all sorts of hiding places."

"I'll die in the end," I say bitterly. "Kids like me, sure, they survive the bloodbath. They never win."

"Keaton, if you give up before you even enter the arena... Yes, you'll die," Uncle Took says bluntly. I flinch and turn away.

"I don't want to go, Uncle Took," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. "Why do I have to go?"

He doesn't answer me, and I think I know what he would say anyway – something treasonous.

"I don't have a token," I say after a few minutes of silence. It's a stupid thing to say, but what else is there to talk about? "Any ideas?"

Uncle Took looks at me in surprise, then roots around in his pocket for a second. I watch with curiosity, wondering what he's going to pull out.

"Hold your hand out, Keaton," he tells me, holding his clenched fist in front of him. I put my hand under his, palm-up, and he drops a bronze coin that's shiny from years and years of handling.

"This?" I ask, surprised. "But- it's your lucky coin, Uncle Took. I can't take that!" I protest, though I can't deny that I'm pleased that he would entrust me with it. Even though luck isn't real, maybe having this coin with me in the arena will help me survive...

"Nah, I think you deserve it," Uncle Took assures me. "Besides, my uncle gave me it when I was your age-"

"No, I remember you telling me this story before," I interrupt. "He gave it to you when you were fourteen."

"Well, you're probably at the same maturity level now as I was then," he invents, shrugging.

I roll my eyes. "Right." I hug him again. "Thanks, Uncle Took."

"I'm sorry, Keaton. You shouldn't have to go through this," he tells me in a low voice. "No one should."

"I know. But it's not your fault," I add.

Uncle Took frowns slightly, then nods. He looks like he's about to say something else, but a Peacekeeper opens the door and interrupts him.

"Time's almost up," the man says gruffly.

Uncle Took nods again and turns back to me. "Do you want to see your parents?" he asks.

I scowl at the thought. "No. I bet they didn't even come to see me, anyway. Did you see them?"

My uncle sighs and shakes his head.

"Well, if they're outside, tell them I don't want to see them," I say firmly.

"Ok... I can do that for you." Uncle Took gives me one last hug and then walks to the door. "Keaton- I really do think you can win," he adds. "So I'll just say... Goodbye."

"Bye," I echo. The door closes, leaving me alone again. Uncle Took is as good as his word, and my parents don't come see me at all. I spend the rest of the hour turning the coin in my hand over and over, studying its two faces.

The car ride to the train station, and then the walk to the train itself, passes in a blur. I ask questions, but I'm not really listening to the answers. Most of my attention is taken up by the coin that I'm flipping through my fingers.

We watch the reaping recap on the train (the Careers this year don't look as scary as they usually do, but I'm sure they're just as deadly as always) and arrive at the Capitol after the sun sets. The city itself is so bright, though – there are lights and flashing signs everywhere.

Despite the stress of the day, I just crawl into my bed – the comfiest thing I've ever been on – and fall asleep immediately.

* * *

><p>AN: Whew, I was really busy the last couple of days. Writing two reapings a day is too much work, sorry. I'll try to do one a day, from now on!

Random fact: Keaton is the only 12 year old. Makes sense, though. What is a bit more weird is the fact that the most common age of this year's tributes is 17 (there's seven of them!). There's only one 18 year old (Trance). Well, hope you found that interesting. XD

Feedback is always appreciated ~ ;)


	8. Obsessive Strategist: Alivya Tarrow

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<br>**

__the obsessive strategist  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Alivya Tarrow, female tribute of District Three<em>

I think if you asked the people who know me to describe me in one word, that word would be 'OCD'. I have a certain routine, and I don't like deviating from it. I mean, I can, obviously, but if it's for a stupid reason, I don't like to do it. I always have to look perfectly presentable, I hate getting dirty, and whenever I see something that's messy, I have to put it back in order again.

Living in the poorer area of District Three has only intensified how obsessive I can be. The streets and homes are dirtier, and everyone has this shabby sort of look. Maybe if I'd grown up in this part of town, it wouldn't bother me so much, but my family used to be part of the upper class, and we lived in the nicer part of the District.

What changed? My father, who was a foreman at one of the District's many factories, got caught in an explosion and lost his sight. He can't work anymore, and my mother had to stop being a homemaker and had to get a job in the factory. My father gets a small disability payment, but it's a pittance, really...

Every year since I turned twelve, without fail, I have trouble getting to sleep the night before the reaping. I've found that reading (books about the production of electronics) helps me keep my mind of the upcoming 'holiday' and I usually nod off after a few hours.

Since my routine is a little bit disrupted due to me getting to sleep later, I always set my alarm so that I'll wake up at the usual hour.

This method of 'routine correction', if you will, has never failed me before... Until this year.

When I wake up, it's usually around dawn (it varies a little, depending on the time of year), so when I wake up to the sun shining brightly into my room...

Well, it's not a good sign. I scramble out of bed and glance at the clock – it's only two hours until the reaping! Why, why didn't my alarm go off? I check the clock, and see that someone switched the alarm off...

It must have been Stalvo, my irritating older brother. I'll get him back for this... later.

There's no time for my morning run. I rush into the shower, and my blonde hair probably looks _awful_ because I only have like fifteen minutes to brush it into perfection. Thankfully, I picked out my outfit the day before. To be honest, most of my outfits consist of the same thing – ironed khakis and a collared, button up shirt (various colours) plus one of my two pairs of shoes – so that's not such a big deal.

Today's outfit comprises a blue shirt, ironed khakis and my white tennis shoes. (My other shoes are black, because those two colours go with anything.)

I hurry into the kitchen to grab something to eat – fainting on the day of the reaping would be so embarrassing. Then I notice that the magnetic alphabet we have on our fridge is all out of order, so I waste another five minutes putting it back in order.

I just know this is my brother's doing..!

I eat an apple, which is the only item of food we have that doesn't need preparation nor does it take a long to eat. I still have an hour until the reaping starts – so I'll be all right. Except that I'm sure most of the other eligible children will have signed in when I get there, and who knows what kind of germs will be on the pen...

I shudder at the thought and put it out of my mind. I'll deal with it then.

My father is sitting in the living room, staring out the window with unseeing eyes. The accident has affected all of us, but my father most of all – for obvious reasons. But I wish he would see that sitting around all day, doing nothing, is not going to make things better. Stalvo, of course, left me to get my father to the reaping. My mother's working overtime at the factory (since it's a holiday, you get double pay if you go in anyway).

"Dad," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. I never know how my father is going to react.

"What is it, Alivya?" he responds in a world weary tone.

"It's almost time for the reaping – Mom said she'll meet us at the square, remember?"

"I remember," he retorts, sounding annoyed now.

I ignore it. "Ok. So I think we should go now," I tell him. "The reaping starts in an hour, and I need to sign in."

He heaves a sigh, but rises. I notice that my mother must have helped him dress this morning, since he's in a suit that's only slightly shabby.

I lead him down the front walk, then direct him to continue down the street towards the town square (there are fences along the sidewalk, so he can guide himself with those) while I get my best friend, Dhalia.

Fortunately, she's dressed and such. She's definitely a dreamer, and I wouldn't put it past her to forget about the reaping... We walk to the town square together, with my father. Stalvo joins us about halfway there, his shirt partially untucked from his pants. I know he just does these things to get on my nerves, but knowing doesn't make me immune to them.

"Your shirt's not tucked in, Stalvo," I point out, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

"Oh? My bad," Stalvo answers, grinning as he fixes his appearance.

"Very funny," I mutter, perturbed.

"Sorry, little sis," Stalvo says, innocently reaching up to ruffle my perfect hair. I swat his hand away while Dhalia giggles. She's used to our sibling antics by now.

Stalvo takes Dad off my hands, and Dhalia and I join the line of kids waiting to sign in.

"I wonder if I'll get reaped," Dhalia remarks, causing a twelve year old in front to glance fearfully back at us. Dhalia remains oblivious, though. "Wouldn't it be nice to meet the guy of your dreams? Imagine if you were paired with some hot guy..."

"Dhalia," I say, interrupting her fantasy. "Romances that happen in the arena either end with one or both parties dead."

Dhalia frowns. "Not necessarily." She rattles off the two successful romances that have emerged from Hunger Games in the past. (Not counting Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark – no one ever counts them.)

"Well, that's a great track record. How long has the rule about being able to win in pairs been in place?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

"... Fifty years, give or take," Dhalia sighs grudgingly.

"Exactly. And do you really want to meet your 'soul mate'-" I put the words in air quotes, to show just how much stock I put into the concept, "-in the _arena_ of all places?"

"Imagine what kinds of bonds would be forged!" Dhalia protests. "You're so unromantic, Alivya," she complains.

"You're too romantic," I respond, shrugging. "So I guess we balance each other out."

"I guess. Oh, only five more people in front of us," Dhalia remarks, sounding eager to sign in. I'll attribute that to her wanting to get out of this line, and not to her wanting to be reaped.

I quickly pull out my compact mirror – it's always in my pocket, and I never go anywhere without it. A quick check assures me that my hair is still in place, and by then it's Dhalia's turn to sign in. I pull my sleeve over my hand to protect my limb from any lingering germs on the pen, then follow Dhalia to the seventeen year old section.

About five minutes after we reach our age group, the show starts.

Yarmouth Trivial, a guy who looks so normal it's actually abnormal, is the escort of our District. When the mayor's done the opening speech and everything, he starts the ball rolling.

"Good afternoon, District Three," is his calm, even greeting. He's not enthusiastic, but it's like he's really against it either. He just sounds, well, calm. Yarmouth doesn't wait for an answering call or cheer or something (which is good, because I doubt we would have given him one) and continues, "We'll start with the ladies, I think, this year." Instead of hurrying over, he just strolls to the first reaping bowl, like it's no big deal.

Well, I won't lie – most of the tributes from District Three die in the bloodbath, so I guess to a Hunger Games-loving Capitol citizen, the reaping of our 'weak' District is not a big deal.

"... Our female tribute this year is Alivya Tarrow. Miss Tarrow, please come to the stage," Yarmouth states gravely.

Wait... What?

Dhalia makes this almost soundless gasp, turning to me fearfully. Out of habit, I pull out my compact mirror to check my appearance – flawless. Then I force myself to take a step forward, and another, until I find myself standing on the stage beside and a little bit behind Yarmouth.

I keep my expression as controlled as I can – appearances are important in the Hunger Games. While I'm internally freaking out about the fact that _I just got reaped_, a more practical part has taken over, already assessing what strategies I can employ to ensure my survival. Even though I was thinking about the high mortality rate of tributes from my District just a few moments ago...

"And our male tribute will be... Keaton Carver. Please come up, Mr. Carver," Yarmouth announces, and a boy that I vaguely recognize – _twelve years old, hardly a threat_, I think, and hate myself for it – walks onto the stage. He looks completely floored – well, who wouldn't be, in this situation? Especially someone as young as him... Naturally, there's always a risk, but the odds of being picked at that age...

Who am I kidding. The fact remains that anyone, regardless of age, sex or social class, can be picked. There's no rhyme nor is there any reason to it. In the end, I guess it's just the whim of the escort, deciding which slip to choose and which ones to pass by...

Yarmouth is about to continue with the proceedings, but Keaton interrupts him, voicing a question along the lines of what I was just thinking: "Why did you pick my name? Why didn't you put your hand in the pile, like you did with the girls? What made you pick from the top?"

I focus my gaze on the pair of them, listening intently for the answer. Unsurprisingly, it's not very revealing. "It seemed like the natural thing to do, dear boy," Yarmouth responds, the first sign of emotion colouring his tone – he sounds a little bit surprised.

That answer seems suspicious to me. Suddenly "Mr. Carver" has become "dear boy"? Yarmouth has made the reaping seem very impersonal, and now he's suddenly addressing Keaton in such a familiar way... It doesn't make sense. And Keaton's question raises other questions – like, was Keaton reaped on purpose? Was the reaping rigged?

I was vaguely watching Yarmouth pick my name, and he seemed to be rooting around a bit in the female pile; that's a sharp contrast to what Keaton's saying our escort did with his name...

I file that piece of information away for future reference and study.

Yarmouth finishes up the reaping, and Keaton and I shake hands. I'm struck by how small his hand is –and then Peacekeepers escort us to the Justice Building.

Stalvo and my parents are the first to visit me. Even though she's not even forty yet, my mother's face is lined with stress and fatigue. She looks even older now, faced with the prospect of her only daughter most probably going off to the Capitol, and then to the arena where she'll be forced to watch me get slaughtered on national television.

My father gazes blankly at me, and the feeling of despair that always seems to be hanging about him is showing on his face. Stalvo looks miserable, though he attempts to make several jokes in the silence to lift the mood.

It doesn't work, but I give him a weak smile in acknowledgement of his effort.

"Don't give up, Alivya. You're smart-" my mother begins to say, her voice tired as always.

"I bet that's what every parent or friend or other family member says to every tribute from District Three," I can't stop myself from saying bitterly.

"You're not just smart, you're a great runner," Stalvo puts in. "Most of us can't claim that much."

I nod slowly, conceding the point. If I can grab some supplies and bolt to a safe place, maybe I can hole up and wait until there's only a few tributes left...

"You're always reading about technology and electronics. The arena might be something high tech," my father remarks, speaking for the first time. "They haven't done that in a few years... Have they?" Uncertainty enters his voice – he can't watch the Games, for obvious reasons, and it's not like we want to provide a verbal commentary, also for obvious reasons.

"No, they haven't," my mother agrees. "So there's a good possibility that at least some aspect of the arena will incorporate electronics."

The conversation continues like this for the rest of the allotted time, and when the Peacekeepers usher my parents out, I feel a lot more confident than I did before.

My next visitor is Dhalia. Her glasses are all fogged up, and her cheeks are all splotchy – she was obviously crying, although she pulled it together before coming in to see me.

We discuss strategies for a bit, and then Dhalia (pursuing our earlier conversation) tells me, "And if your partner seems like a good person to ally with, you should definitely go for it."

I look at her in surprise – it's a really good point, one that I hadn't thought of because I was operating under the assumption that I would be working alone. But she raises a good point. Regular tributes (that is, non-Careers) seem to survive longer if they work together. And if my partner is a good ally, that's even better because there's no reason to betray each other...

Unless they're a Career. If a regular tribute gets paired with a Career, unless the untrained kid is strong, the Career (or their 'allies', the other Careers) usually kills them. In cases like that, it's always better to run if you're the regular tribute.

"Yeah, you're right," I agree, nodding.

Dhalia gives me a small smile. "It's not often you tell me I'm right, Alivya," she remarks. She doesn't sound resentful or anything, but it's true that I usually tell her to stop dreaming so much and live in the real world.

"Good luck," she whispers, giving me a hug, and then allows the Peacekeeper to lead her out of the room.

All too soon, I'm being led to the car that will take me to the train station. I muster a smile that feels only three quarters forced for the cameras and give them a bit of a wave. It's fairly standard, but usually only the really 'tough' tributes can get away with not acting the part and still get good ratings.

Keaton does most of the talking, but he sounds distracted. Every time I look at him, he's flipping a coin through his fingers – I assume it's his token. I realize that I haven't even thought about my own token... But then the perfect answer comes to me: It'll be my compact mirror, of course.

Thanks to the meagre meal I had this morning and despite the distress that came with getting reaped, my appetite is ravenous and I eat my fill of the rich Capitol feast. Hopefully all that rich food won't come back to haunt me, later...

Even though I resolve myself to not be discouraged when I see the other tributes, watching the reaping recap is pretty difficult. Districts One, Two, Five and Seven (the Career Districts) as well as Thirteen (apparently dying a bloody death in the arena is better than staying in the District) all put forward volunteers – except for the boy from Five. He gets reaped, but he looks strong anyway, despite being rather diminutive. A few other tributes make an impression on me as either people to avoid or people to talk with about potential allying.

We arrive at the Capitol in the evening, though you wouldn't be able to tell by how bright the city is. District Three's streetlights are dim, flickering things that do very little to aid a person caught outside at night. It's bright enough to be day, in the Capitol.

It bothers me that most of this technology is manufactured in District Three, yet the Capitol reaps all the benefits, but I put that thought out of my mind, too. I can't focus on the unjust disparity between the Capitol and the Districts. When I step off the train, I tell myself that I have to focus on only one thing:

Surviving the Hunger Games and returning home.

* * *

><p>AN: Pfft. What did I just say? One reaping a day. Sheesh. Let's say I'm making up for not posting yesterday, heh.

Oh yeah, if you spot any mistakes or something, please point them out. I try to reread the chapters once I finish them, but... Mistakes pass me by, sometimes. ;)

Feedback would be awesome ~ And a big thanks to the people who have reviewed so far. I appreciate each and every one!


	9. Tough Observer: Arden Wade

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<br>**

__the tough observer  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Arden Wade, male tribute of District Four<em>

I'm not one to spend my time thinking about what the future is going to be like – I just don't worry about it. I have a steady job on one of District Four's many fishing vessels, and barring some disaster, that's not about to change. If I do indulge myself in thoughts like that, the only thing that I really find myself wanting is the chance to see or visit some place beyond the confines of my District. That's impossible, of course. Only government officials are allowed to leave their District, and I am certainly not one of those.

That's probably why I don't have any more trouble than I usually do falling asleep the night before the annual reaping for the Hunger Games.

I wake up at the early hour I usually do – the fishing boats go out early, and if you don't show up, you don't get paid. Today is one of the few days off that we get, so for once I don't get up right away, but instead just watch the sun gradually light up my room.

I listen to my father get ready for work – as a Peacekeeper, he still has to do his job today, but after the reaping he gets the rest of the day off instead of having to work until almost midnight. Then I hear my mother getting back from her job, which keeps her on a schedule completely opposite that of mine and my father's. She works nights, and I hardly ever see her.

"Arden?" she calls, knocking gently on my door at the same time. "Are you awake?"

I sit up, running a hand (or trying to, anyway; I really need to cut it) through my tangled black hair. "Yeah," I answer, smiling a bit. Even if I was asleep, I'd be awake now.

My mom enters the room, her smile tired but sincere. "I was just wondering if you could wake me up before you leave for the reaping today... I'm going to try to get some sleep," she explains.

"I will," I agree, having no reason not to go along with her request.

She sends me a grateful look, then adds, "Oh, and I brought your reaping outfit home from the seamstress'. It's in the front room."

I nod, and she leaves me alone again.

Deciding that I've lazed around long enough for one day, I get out of bed and go to take a shower. Mirrors aren't exactly common in District Four, so I comb my fingers through my shaggy hair until it's relatively free of snags and hope it looks presentable. I really do need to cut it, but I never seem to get around to it – it's hanging around my jaw, now, and besides always getting tangled in the ocean breeze, it seems to constantly be in my eyes.

I try on my reaping outfit (it's the same tuxedo I've had since my very first reaping, resized every year as necessary) and as usual it fits comfortably.

Despite the fact that I woke up relatively late by my own standards, there are still about four hours before the reaping is set to begin. I change into more casual clothes, carefully setting my reaping clothing aside. I don't want it to get wrinkled, or anything like that.

After eating a quick breakfast of seaweed bread and a bit of fish (standard District Four food), I take a walk around the neighbourhood. I know the place like the back of my hand from all the late-night strolls I've taken, but in the daylight it seems slightly different...

I assume that most of my drinking buddies are still sleeping off their hangovers from last night. Usually I'd be included in their number, but I begged off yesterday. I'm one of the youngest of our little group (I know them from working on the same fishing boat) so as a result I'm also one of the only ones still eligible to be reaped.

I bypass the town square, following the thin alleyways and shortcuts that I've come to know by heart. The preparations are in full swing, banners with District Four's seal, as well as that of the Capitol and the logo for the Hunger Games, are being hung from the buildings, and the stage has already been erected.

I wonder which of the Victors is going to mentor this year. Last year's Victor, a fourteen year old girl named Whyte Capp, obviously, but I don't know about the male mentor. Before the rule change that permanently allowed two tributes to win, there was understandably a very small number of younger (like, fourteen or younger) Victors. The record was actually held by Finnick Odair, District Four's most infamous Victor, who won the 65th Games at the age of fourteen. He held that position for a long time, until the rule change.

Now, it's a bit more common for younger tributes to win, even if they're not trained. It all depends on who a tribute gets paired with at the beginning of the Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair was from the era when District Four was still considered a 'Career District'. We had a large number of Victors, comparable, I've learned, to the number of Victors District One had during that time. But after the failure of the Second Rebellion and the enforcement of the no-prior-training law (for District Four only; One, Two, and later Five and Seven, are free to continue training their tributes), the number of volunteers and Victors has tapered off sharply since then. I'd say District Four gets a Victor as often as the other non-Career Districts like Three, Six and Ten do.

Whyte Capp was partnered with a brute of a Career, Murdoch Clemens, from District Seven last year. It seemed obvious that he was going to win - he pulled a twelve in training, the highest score possible, and he portrayed himself as this ruthless killer during the interviews and such. So when Whyte was paired with him, everyone thought she would be one of the first to die, but Murdoch surprisingly showed her mercy, bullying the other Careers into accepting her into their Alliance, and eventually it ended up with Murdoch, the female Career from District Five, and Whyte being the final three.

Correctly assuming that Whyte was Murdoch's weakness, the girl from Five went after her. Well, needless to say, Murdoch stopped her. That's how Whyte Capp and Murdoch Clemens ended up the two Victors of the 323rd Hunger Games. Whyte is actually the first Victor we've had in over ten years. The other Victors are all in their thirties or older.

Occupied with thoughts of last year's Hunger Games, I don't notice I've reached the beach at the edge of town until I find myself walking on the sand. Usually boats dominate the ocean before me, but today is a day off, so there's only one or two boats out. Some people are poor enough that they need the overtime pay. I notice that there are several families playing on the beach, another rare occurrence. But, I guess today is technically a holiday, it just seems strange to take advantage of that fact when you know two kids are most likely going to be sent to their death.

Shaking my head to rid myself of those thoughts, I set out along the beach until I come to the river that marks the boundary of the town, and follow it back into the main quarter. A glance at the clock on the Justice Building tells me I've got an hour and a half before I have to be at the reaping. Already, though, people are gathering; there's a few children in their age groups, and adults are grouped at the edges.

I guess they'd want to avoid standing in line to sign in, though I don't see what the big deal is about waiting.

It takes me another fifteen minutes to walk back to my house (it would have been longer if I hadn't used the various shortcuts I've discovered over the years) and I go to wake my mother. I change back into my reaping outfit, and then wait for my mother to emerge. She's wearing a dress, and we walk to the reaping together.

We're not a very talkative family, so the pair of us walks in silence. My mother bids me good luck when we reach the line (it's pretty long, since the reaping starts soon) and walks off to the 'spectator area'. I find myself standing behind a group of younger teenagers - they're probably around fifteen? There's six of them, obviously they're close friends.

After at least twenty minutes - probably more - we finally reach the front of the line. Sure enough, most of the group heads for the fifteen year old section. My father is the Peacekeeper supervising the signing in, so we nod to each other when it's finally my turn to write my name down.

I find my school buddies (not to be confused with my drinking buddies) in the seventeen year old section and we chat a bit. Mostly it's jokes about each other's outfits, or their mother, or... Well, you get the idea.

It takes the mayor a few tries to get the crowd to quiet down so that the reaping can begin. No one is particularly enthusiastic about the reaping, so no one is in a hurry to get things started. Eventually, the mayor does get through the abbreviated history of Panem and the Treaty of Treason (standard stuff that everyone has heard many times over) and then our escort takes the stage.

It's a new guy. I guess last year's escort got promoted, after Whyte's victory.

"Excuse me, District Four," the guy squeaks in his almost unintelligible Capitol accent. "I'm Neptune Wintersea, your new escort! You see..." And he launches into an explanation about how, like I assumed, the previous escort got promoted after Whyte and Murdoch won last year. People aren't really paying attention, and I'd feel sorry for the guy if he wasn't here to escort two kids to their deaths. Maybe.

"Ahem, anyway..." Neptune says, finishing up the story. "Ladies first, yes? That seems to be the tradition..." He strides over to the female bowl and then drags the tension out for at least a minute as he fumbles around in the mass of paper slips. "Here we are... This year's lucky girl is... Iris Beakley!"

The name isn't familiar to me, but then I don't know many people beyond my close friends and the people I work with.

It's the girl who was standing in line in front of me to sign in. I recognize her because I noticed that she had a scar on her left cheek, like a really bad scrape that healed badly. There are tears in her eyes, but she isn't crying yet. Her shoulders are hunched up, like she's trying to make herself smaller.

If Neptune notices her distress, he ignores it. "And now, for the boys we have... Arden Wade!"

I'm already walking forward before I realize what I'm doing, a reflexive reaction that has me moving before my mind can figure out what just happened.

"So, District Four," Neptune addresses the crowd when I mount the stage, "any volunteers this year...?"

Of course there aren't any.

"Arden Wade! Iris Beakley! These are your tributes for the 324th Hunger Games, District Four!" Neptune cheers, and grudging applause filters through the crowd. I've never been particularly proud of my District, but this half-hearted response is actually a little comforting.

My father is among the Peacekeepers who escort Iris and I to the Justice Building, and he enters with me when we reach the room set aside for my hour of goodbyes.

"Dad, I-" I start to say, but my father shushes me.

"Arden, we'll think of a way out of this," he says firmly. "There must be some way to get you out of this."

I shrug helplessly. "How? Unless the tribute dies in the Capitol or something, there's no way to get a replacement. Even if you are a Peacekeeper," I point out, hating the words but knowing them to be true.

My father shakes his head in denial. "No, I won't accept that," he insists. "And neither should you! You're going to-" he breaks off, looking stricken. I can easily fill in the blanks though: I'm going to my death.

"I have a chance," I point out, and I'm not just trying to cheer him up by saying so. I honestly believe that I have a better chance than most. I might not have the training of a Career, but living in Four prepares a tribute for the Hunger Games in ways that are unique to the District. Most kids have some idea of how to fish, and swimming is like breathing for practically everyone. Tying knots, well, among fishermen and dock workers it's a more common ability. Not to mention, working on the fishing boats is _hard_ work. I might not be a finely honed Career, but I've got muscle.

Iris had the look of a merchant - her clothes were of a better quality, and she just had a softer look about her - so I doubt that she'll have quite the same advantages as me...

I drop that train of thought. If I go into the Hunger Games and return, I won't come back a monster. I certainly won't be someone who betrays or kills their District partner. Sure, a tribute doesn't have any obligation to their fellow District tribute, but it leaves a bad taste in the mouths of the people from the non-Career Districts when something like that happens.

My father nods slowly. "You do. And you've got a good head on you... You won't do anything rash or impulsive and get yourself in over your head and killed," he agrees, yet he still sounds reluctant to even consider a scenario that involves me and a Hunger Games arena. "And if there's water, and fish..."

"Exactly," I agree. Usually there's at least something the tributes of Four can use (assuming they last that long, and can find it) like a pond, or a stream...

"Wade- your wife's here," the Peacekeeper guarding the door announces, and lets my mother into the room.

"Arden," she sighs, immediately hugging me. I have to wonder how often tributes in a position similar to mine get hugs from their parents. Probably quite a lot.

"I can win," I say, acknowledging that possibility for the first time.

My mother stares at me for a long moment, and then nods. "I know you can, Arden. I just..." She gestures vaguely, in a helpless way. I know what she's trying to say: watching the Hunger Games makes her very uncomfortable, and if wasn't mandatory, I don't think she would. Well, it makes most people uncomfortable, but my mother more so. Seeing me on the screen would be even worse.

"I'll come back, and I won't be changed," I tell her fiercely. Seeing children die for the bloodthirsty Capitol's amusement is horrifying, but I think the sight of the other children slaughtering them is worse for her.

My mother shakes her head. "Just come back, Arden," she whispers. "As long as you come back to me... If you can get in with the Careers, do it. Do whatever you have to do to make it back alive."

I flinch. I don't know if I can do that. In fact, I have a strong feeling that I _can't_ do that. I'll go into the Games to survive, but I won't sacrifice my morals or beliefs for the sake of the Capitol's entertainment. If I have to kill, I will; but I won't make a show of it, and it will only be as a last resort. "I'll do what I can," is all I can say. I don't want to lie to her.

My father clears his throat. "Good luck, Arden. We both know that you can do it," he says, seeming to have come to terms with the fact that I will be entering the arena. Good - I don't want him to get in trouble with his superiors in an effort to get me out of this.

"Thanks," I answer, giving my parents what I hope is a confident smile.

"We'd better be going," he adds. Our time has already run over the allotted fifteen minutes per person/group; I imagine we've been given some slack because my father's a Peacekeeper and he knows the one standing guard outside this room.

My mother hugs me once more. "I know you'll come back," she tells me as I return her embrace just as fiercely.

I'm a bit surprised (and hurt) when none of my friends come to visit me, but it does provide me with an opportunity to mull things over. If I do get paired with a Career in the arena, my best option would be to grab a few supplies from the edges and bolt, as I have no intention of joining the Alliance that is invariably formed every year... If I get paired with a regular tribute, it would make sense to ally with them - unless they're hopeless.

My first reaction is to reject that last thought, but while pairs can be advantageous, they also have their disadvantages...

I'll have to observe the other tributes and see what their abilities could be, then make a decision in the arena, when I find out who my partner will be. I'm not that great at making strategies anyway - snap decisions are more my strength.

Too soon, I rejoin Iris and we're escorted to the train station. I give the Capitol reporters a glare and don't answer any of their questions. Iris shrinks closer to me, as if she's trying to hide from them.

Neptune, Whyte and a man named Shell (late thirties) greet us when we reach the train, and we're led to the dining car.

Unsurprisingly, the feast that's laid before us is the best food that I've ever tasted, although I don't recognize much of it. There's no fish dishes, which is a pretty weird experience.

After a few hours' long train ride with the mentors and Neptune, I think I've got a pretty good impression on all of them. Shell is an absolute bastard; he's rude (to me) and lewd (to Iris and Whyte) and obnoxious.

Unfortunately, he's my mentor. Great. I grit my teeth and act like his attitude doesn't annoy the hell out of me. I'm going to need a mentor on my side if I want to get out of the Games.

Whyte is timid, and I won't lie, it's weird having a mentor who's younger than both of the tributes she's supposed to be guiding. She mostly ignores Shell's blatant suggestions, and doesn't speak much.

And then there's Neptune. He's pretty much a regular Capitol citizen: Hunger Games-obsessed, shallow, vain and tactless.

My District partner doesn't speak much, either. Not promising for a potential ally...

We reach the Capitol as the sun starts to slip below the horizon, and we're bustled off to the Training Center because we're running a bit behind schedule and wouldn't it be _terrible_ if we missed the reaping recap! (Neptune's words, not mine.)

There doesn't seem to be a definite 'top tribute' like Murdoch was last year, which I find to be promising. I don't find that there is much to notice about this year's batch of tributes - but of course, it's hard to get a good grasp of a person by watching maybe ten minutes of footage on them.

We eat a late dinner, and then Iris and Whyte disappear, presumably to go to bed. Neptune departs, babbling on about some party or other, so it's just Shell and I in the main room. We talk for a bit, but it's too infuriating and I have to excuse myself before I do something I'll regret.

I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

* * *

><p>AN: Not much to say about this chapter... Arden's pretty cool, huh? (I keep typing 'Ardem', argh.)

Oh yeah, if you think you have a better 'title' for any given character, feel free to drop a suggestion or something about that.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave some feedback ~ ;)


	10. Selfconscious Competitor: Iris Beakley

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHT<br>**

__the self-conscious competitor  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Iris Beakley, female tribute of District Four<em>

Even though today's a school day, I sleep in for a few hours. It's _technically_ a school day, but it's also the annual reaping day, Panem's one and only holiday.

My mother wakes me up around ten, to help clean up our house.

Since no one has to go to work or attend school, the richer portion of the District – the merchants, mainly – usually hold parties once the reaping is over. This year, it's going to be at our house.

Well, it's not as bad as I make it out to be, and I actually enjoy helping out around the house. My mom stays at home, does the cooking and cleaning, while my father is the one who catches and sells the fish, along with my brother Lkye. My younger sister, Liana, and I help my mother usually. I occasionally go out with Lkye and my father, but just to help with preparing the fish and such.

Despite being from District Four, I'm actually hopeless at fishing. Well, maybe with time I would get better, but the first time I ever tried, I got dragged off the boat and into the water. Lkye hauled me back in, but I ended up scraping the left side of my face really badly. I still have the scar, four years later.

Anyway, we spend a couple of hours freshening up the house – basically, it's an extra-thorough clean, because our house is already pretty clean – and preparing the food we'll be serving later. I mostly help with the food preparation, much to Liana's annoyance. But she's not as good at it as I am, so it makes sense for me to do that part.

"Well, you two should go get ready for the reaping," my mother remarks at length. "I can finish up here. Liana, let Iris go first," she adds, when it looks like Liana is going to run to hog the bathroom. "She needs to sign in, and I'm sure the line will be long."

Liana sighs in annoyance. "Fine. But hurry up, Iris," she adds.

"I'll take as long as I want," I return, grinning.

Liana rolls her eyes, but she doesn't reply. I hurry to the bathroom and take a quick shower.

It's later than I thought, so instead of putting my hair into the usual French braid, I just pull the black strands into a bun. My reaping outfit this year is a light blue sundress, the pearl bracelet that my mother gave me for my eighth birthday (which I've worn ever since) and white ballet flats. When I get to the front of the house, my six friends are waiting in the front room.

"It's about time," Percival jokes. They're all already dressed for the reaping; obviously they were just waiting for me.

Trey grins, even as Maylinn smacks Percival's shoulder.

"We barely got here, thanks to someone." She stares at him pointedly.

As they start to bicker, Lew smiles at me. "We should get going if we don't want to be late," he remarks, which seems to be our cue to leave.

"So, you're all still coming to the party tonight, right?" I question as everyone puts their shoes on.

There's a chorus of agreements, and Dell just nods.

"Bye, mom!" I call, then close the door behind myself and my friends.

We all get along really well, but the easy-going atmosphere around our little group is dampened by the fact that we're all going to the reaping. I don't think any of us have taken out tesserae, so our odds are good, but no one can be blamed for feeling nervous anyway.

The line is pretty long, since we're cutting it rather close. Still, it feels like we're signing in too soon, and then it's off to join the fifteen year old section.

We quietly discuss who will be mentoring this year. Last year's Victor, Whyte Capp, obviously, but we don't know who the male mentor will be.

Our conversation ends when the mayor starts his pre-reaping speech, although none of us are really listening. We do start paying attention when the escort's part begins.

"Excuse me, District Four," the guy calls, after clearing his throat doesn't get everybody to stop talking amongst themselves. "I'm Neptune Wintersea, your new escort! You see, after Miss Whyte-" he pauses to give her a little bow, and she smiles back but is obviously nervous, "-won the Hunger Games last year, Pompei got promoted." Pompei was our old escort, for anyone who might not know this.

"Ahem, anyway..." Neptune continues, "Ladies first, yes? That seems to be the tradition..." He strides over to the female bowl and then drags the tension out for at least a minute as he fumbles around in the mass of paper slips.

I wish he would just get it over with. The tension is-

"Here we are... This year's lucky girl is... Iris Beakley!"

It feels like all the breath is sucked out of my lungs. I actually stagger a bit, and my friends are looking at me in horror.

Wh-why _me_? I don't- I've never taken out any tesserae. I-I don't deserve to _die_!

"Iris," Marney whispers, squeezing my hand. "You have to go up there."

I stare at her blankly, but then I slowly nod and walk up to the stage. My legs are shaking so badly, and I can feel tears prickling at my eyes.

_Don't cry_, I tell myself fiercely.

Neptune smiles at me when I reach his side, then goes over to the other reaping bowl. "And now, for the boys we have... Arden Wade!"

Arden is a seventeen year old that looks a little bit familiar. I wrack my mind for a moment, glad for the distraction – he's the boy who was standing behind me and my friends in line to sign in.

He looks tough and intimidating. His features are all hardened, and seem to be set in a permanent glare.

"So, District Four," Neptune addresses the crowd when Arden joins me on the stage, "any volunteers this year...?"

The small hope that I didn't really believe in but held onto anyway is crushed when no one steps forward.

"Arden Wade! Iris Beakley! These are your tributes for the 324th Hunger Games, District Four!" Neptune announces as we shake hands. Arden's is rough and calloused – he must work on the fishing boats. In comparison, mine is soft and small.

Arden looks like he could win.

I think I just look like someone who'll die in the bloodbath.

I barely notice being brought to the Justice Building, so before I realize it I'm alone in a lounge-like room. I guess this is where I'll be saying my farewells.

My friends are the first to visit me. That's a bit surprising, but I guess it'd be easier to get organized, whereas my family would have to meet up with Lkye before they could come...

They all look miserable, and Percival (always a prankster) doesn't even try to crack any jokes to lighten the mood.

The conversation is stilted and unbearably awkward. My hand keeps twitching upward, to twirl the end of my braid around my fingers. I can't today, though, because my hair is in a bun.

After listening to Maylinn scold Dell for not speaking up more – not exactly a shocking occurrence, considering that Dell is more of a loner – I finally blurt out, "Look, we all know I'm going to die. You guys don't have to stick around."

"Don't say that, Iris," Marney protests, hugging me. "You have a chance! Just look at Whyte! Or... Or..."

"Delphi North," Dell speaks up, possibly for the first time since entering the room. "You know, that twelve year old from District Twelve who won a couple of years ago," she explains, shrugging when everyone looks at her blankly.

"Four years ago," Trey agrees, remembering. "The 320th Games."

The circumstances behind his victory were similar to Whyte's.

"Yeah, but I'm not young and cute," I point out. "I'm older and... not cute," I finish lamely.

"I think you're cute," Lew puts in, then blushes lightly when everyone turns to look at him.

Marney breaks the awkward silence that descended again. "Besides, if you win the Hunger Games, everyone will acknowledge you," she points out. "I know that's what you've always wanted," she adds. It's true, I've always felt inferior to most people around me; I want to feel wanted and needed – something that I've only confided to my best friend.

I nod slowly, beginning to consider a scenario that doesn't end in my gruesome death. If my partner is someone I could ally myself with, or if the arena is similar to District Four's environment...

It's too bad I can't fish. If I could do that... But I can't. There's no point in dwelling on that. I can swim, and that's an advantage most tributes outside of Four don't have. Even most Careers are only mediocre, at best, when it comes to swimming. If I focus on my strengths and find ways to cover my weaknesses...

I don't know what training entails (it's pretty much the only aspect of the Hunger Games that isn't broadcast for the nation to see), but I'll have to work with what I can to improve my odds of survival.

Mastering a weapon in three days is out of the question, but surely there are other survival stations – I know that a lot of tributes know how to make fires, even though it's not a skill that's relevant to any of the Districts' industries...

And while I don't know how to wield a knife in combat, I am familiar with it from preparing meals and more specifically, from gutting and cleaning the fish my father and brother catch. Even though I don't _want_ to, it shouldn't be too difficult to apply the same principles to attack (and kill) another tribute...

The conversation is much more animated, and it doesn't seem quite so forced now that we've put the possibility of me winning out there. Theories and potential strategies and advice are tossed around and refuted or improved upon by all my friends.

All too soon, a Peacekeeper appears to inform us that our time together is almost up. The tears that I had mostly forgotten prickle at my eyes again. Marney hugs me, as do Maylinn and Trey. Percival pats me on the shoulder, and Lew gives me a kiss on the cheek.

... This is new.

We're both blushing, but our friends tactfully don't call us on it.

Dell hangs back as the rest of my friends file out.

"You could try allying with Arden," she suggests quietly. "He looks like he's nice."

I nod automatically, but after she's gone too, I can't help but wonder how she can think he looks 'nice'. He looked hardened and tough to me. Not mean, exactly, but not nice either.

Well, appearances aren't everything...

My family comes in a minute later, which is a completely different kind of painful.

My father is pretty stoic, and we've never been able to really understand each other, but he looks upset all the same.

My mother's eyes are full of tears, but she seems to be trying to keep it together for my sake.

Lkye looks guilt stricken; for a second I don't understand why, and then I realize: he's guilty that he didn't volunteer for me. He's seventeen, and strong from working on the fishing boat with my father... but I don't blame him for not volunteering. But if I think about it objectively, it would make more sense for him to stay behind and help support the family. In a few years, Liana will be able to take over all of the tasks that used to be my responsibility...

I need to stop thinking like that. Wasn't I just thinking a minute ago that I actually had a chance? If I come back a Victor, my whole family can live in comfort.

Liana looks close to tears as well, a few of them leaking down her cheeks, but she gives me a watery smile that I shakily return. We might bicker at home, but we do love each other.

"I wasn't expecting you to volunteer," I say to Lkye, as we stand there staring awkwardly at each other.

"I still-" Lkye's voice cracks and he pulls me into a hug that feels almost bruising. My sister joins in, and soon it's a giant group hug for the Beakley family.

In spite of myself, I can feel tears leaking from my tightly closed eyes, soaking into the shoulder of Lkye's reaping shirt.

"Iris," my father says, his voice rough with emotion. "You have a chance. You can swim..."

"You're sensible," my mother adds.

"You do endurance running in school," my sister chimes in.

"And you know your way around a knife," Lkye finishes.

I smile, much more confidently this time. "That's what I was thinking... Dell mentioned that I might try teaming up with Arden, too. What did you think of him?"

"He seemed like the strong, silent type," my mother observes.

"I know him from school," Lkye remarks. "We're not friends or anything, but he seems like a good enough guy, if a little rough. He gets into fights, but he doesn't seem violent or anything. And around his friends, he's pretty open."

"Wow, do you stalk this guy or something?" Liana asks, smirking.

"No!" Lkye snaps, bristling. "We share a lot of classes, that's all. I didn't really know his name before he was called up for the reaping... But when I saw him I remembered all that stuff."  
>"Right," Liana replies, obviously unconvinced.<p>

Before this can devolve into an all-out brawl (as the youngest, Liana is rather spoiled and gets on both mine and Lkye's nerves with unerring skill) I quickly put in, "And it's a good thing he did. Now I have some information going in." I give Lkye a grateful smile.

Of course, the Peacekeeper tells us my family has to leave. For a second there, it felt like we were back home, bickering around the dinner table.

Well, that illusion's shattered.

"Bye Mom, Dad... I'll miss you, Lkye. And you too, I guess, Liana," I add, my voice sounding weak rather than the teasing tone that I was aiming for.

"We'll see you soon," my mother assures me.

I smile, but don't say anything and the four of them file out.

Then it's off to the train station with Arden. My nerves and fear have returned, to the point that I can't bring myself to speak unless someone addresses me.

At least Arden doesn't rebuff me when I find myself shrinking closer to him under the force of the Capitol reporters. I tell myself that I'll do better next time. I can only the chariot outfits will be good... District Four usually gets decent outfits; fishing is a pretty wide topic. Coal mining, on the other hand, does not offer much room for originality.

Despite not talking to Whyte at all (we're both pretty quiet) I feel like we could be friends. Shell, Arden's mentor, is obnoxious and crude. I feel bad for Arden – but I'm glad Whyte is my mentor – and I can tell that my partner doesn't like Shell at all. If the mentor notices, he doesn't give any indication. And Neptune is just... obnoxious and self-centered. It's a bit hard to stomach the idea that he loves the Games that are most likely going to result in mine and Arden's deaths.

I almost thought we would miss the reaping recap, but with a bit of maniac driving (at least it seems that way, it's far more frantic than the leisurely-in-comparison drive from the Justice Building to the train station) we make it with a few minutes to spare.

I don't find the reapings too disheartening – the volunteers from the Career Districts look formidable, but at the same time they're not as intimidating as they usually are. And the boy from District Five isn't even a volunteer...

Despite telling myself that I have a good chance this year, it takes me a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>AN: Clearly, I can't be trusted to update reliably... BUT, in my defense, **I am in Europe right now** ~ I meant to update before I left with a note about that, but, I needed a break from the reapings. This isn't a reflection on any of the characters, but I'm finding the writing is getting rather repetitive. (16 more to go, ahaha ~)

So, updates will obviously be slower from here on out. I get back on the 15th of August, and updates with hopefully appear more frequently then... We'll see. (My plan is to finish up the reapings by September - so ambitious, I know - but I'm also awful at keeping to deadlines ~~~)

Feedback would be lovely. :)


	11. Mischievous Prankster: Homo Geno

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER NINE<br>**

__the mischievous prankster  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Homozygous "Homo" Geno, male tribute of District Five<br>_

I just want to get one thing out of the way, before anyone gets any wrong ideas: Despite my 'unfortunate' (other people's word; not mine, I like it) name, I'm not homosexual. But I guess people that like me would be Homosexual? Anyway, I don't think I'm gay; let's face it, I'm only fourteen. Other fourteen year olds might be interested in stuff like that, but I haven't even hit puberty yet, as my four-foot-ten height can attest.

The only things that I _really_ like are playing pranks, and training for the Hunger Games. In that order.

If the prank happens to be something that could seriously annoy the authorities? So much the better. See, here in Five, it's pretty structured and subdued, like you might expect from the District charged with scientific research. Obviously, I can see the advantage of such a lifestyle, but I like to shake things up as well. Too much of something (no matter what) is never good.

Take the annual reapings, for example. District Five is a 'Career' District, so we more or less look forward to the national holiday. At the very least, we don't dread it like they do in the upper Districts (and Three and Four) because, unless the reaped tribute is trained, nine-point-nine times out of ten someone will volunteer for you. Getting reaped is not the death sentence it is in other Districts.

Still, I have to say that lining up, signing in and then waiting for the chronically-tardy escort (a woman in her fifties that looks about thirty thanks to the advancements in plastic surgery courtesy of District you-know-which) named Vulpina Coral gets boring after... Well, after like ten minutes of a person's first reaping. Having to endure it year after year...

This is why I like to shake things up.

The week before the reaping, Sean (my older cousin) and I spread around the rumour of an 'extra class' held in the town square just before the reaping. In a smart (aleck) District like Five, those are pretty much the magic words to get everyone to come out.

I'm exaggerating, but quite a few people will come out, I'm sure.

The Peacekeepers aren't very smart, let's be frank here. They're either Capitol citizens who've committed crimes (and everyone knows the people of the Capitol are _brilliant_) or else District citizens typically from Two.

Like I said, not very smart.

This makes it almost depressingly easy to forge a false document (based on the one that permits my father to own and operate the local pharmacy, a lucrative business I must say) and convince the Peacekeepers that I'm allowed to give a 'supplementary class on biology'. Since it sounds smart and scientific (to the uneducated), they just go with it.

None of the important people are around – the Victors know better than to show up on time, the mayor arrives with the escort, and... That's about it for the VIPs.

My 'class' starts at the time the reaping normally would. Sean is on the lookout for any VIPs who actually know what's going on and would put a stop to the supplementary session.

I even dressed up for the occasion. Wait, that's supposed to be done on a reaping day? ... Anyway. I'm wearing a white shirt, black dress pants and shiny black shoes.

With messily combed hair, because let's face it: if you get in the slightest bit of breeze, carefully coiffed hair is going to get all messed up anyway. Why not just avoid that whole short step of being 'perfectly done up' and just skip to messy.

"Ok, class," I say, pacing around in front of the assembled students. There's a pretty good turnout from every age group. I figure the kids in my year and below probably know that this is a joke but wanted to see what it was all about, while the older kids are here to get good spots if they intend to volunteer. Either way, all that matters is that they're here. "Today, we're going to learn about Punnett squares. Does anyone know what that is?"

Most of the kids in the upper age groups put up their hands. I think everyone saw that one coming.

"Um, yes, the black-haired girl at the front," I say, pointing pretty much randomly. "Miss...?"

"Lerner," the girl states. Her voice sounds a bit like a Capitol citizen's, high-pitched and with that sort of questioning tone. That's kind of unfortunate. "A Punnett square is a diagram that can be used to figure out the possible outcomes of a breeding experiment," she explains. (1)

"Right," I agree. I think it's a mark of how academically overachieving most of the kids in this District are that I'm not even surprised that her definition sounds like something out of a textbook. "Everyone knows what a tic-tac-toe diagram looks like, right?" I try to demonstrate with my hands, but if anyone doesn't actually know what it looks like, my demonstration would be of absolutely no help. "So, the first parent – let's say the father – has blue eyes. Blue is the recessive gene, so if the mother has brown eyes, it's pretty likely that their children will have brown eyes. Brown is the dominant gene."

Someone from the thirteen year old section shouts, "But what about people with green eyes? Or gray ones?"

I scowl and stalk over to the part of the stage before that group. "That's a more advanced lesson. You have to know the basics before you can tackle problems like that," I tell the shouter sternly, then return to the center of the stage.

"Anyway, let's say there're two genes for eye colour: capital-b which gives brown eyes and lowercase-b which gives blue eyes." I pull the large marker board over and draw a Punnett square with black marker. "In order to have blue eyes, you need two blue genes, or two lowercase-b's; to have brown ones, you just at least one brown gene, so it could be uppercase-b, lowercase-b or two uppercase-b's..." I explain, illustrating the three different cases above the diagram.

I'm just about to fill it in with the first example when I hear a shrill whistle from outside the town square. That's Sean's signal – someone with an idea of what the heck is going on must be nearby.

"Well, that's all for today, kids. We'll continue this next year," I announce, pocketing the marker. Hiding the board is a bit more difficult. I chuck it off the back of the stage and then jump off the front. Disappearing into the fourteen year old crowd is pretty easy, especially considering that most (possibly all, sadly) of them are taller than me.

Surprisingly, Vulpina is less than half an hour late this year. None of the Victors have shown up yet, no doubt counting on her chronic tardiness. I wonder if they'll get in trouble for being late. Vulpina never seems to, but she's a Capitol citizen and so there is a different set of almost non-existent rules that applies to her, obviously.

The mayor looks faintly annoyed, his smile strained as he looks at the assembled crowd. Most of the kids are still in line to sign up, and there are a few adults missing. And of course, the Victors haven't shown themselves at this point.

"I think I'll just start my speech while the children to sign in, how does that sound, Vulpina?" he asks. She's checking her cell phone, and just nods distractedly.

Wow. That's a pretty big slap in the face. I mean, we get it, you're Capitol, we're District, there's a clear divide between the groups. But he's the _mayor_, the leader of District Five. That's just not polite.

Luckily, the Victors arrive within about ten minutes. They're in various states of disarray, and most of them don't bother to greet Vulpina.

"Ok! Let's get started, everyone," Vulpina says cheerfully, seeming to not notice that the Victors are ignoring her. I guess she's used to it; most people aren't listening to her speech either. So, pretty much par for the course thus far. The only thing that's really surprising is that she was so early, relatively speaking.

"Is everyone ready for the first name? This year's lucky girl is... Esther Cline!" Vulpina announces, smiling. When Esther joins her on the stage, the escort adds, "Any volunteers this year, District Five?"

The same girl – Something Lerner – that answered my question raises her hand. "I volunteer!" she calls back to Vulpina.

"Well, come on up to the stage! And what's your name?" Vulpina questions, holding the microphone up to the black-haired girl's mouth.

"Amandine Lerner," she answers calmly. Amandine doesn't seem like a trained tribute, to be honest. Usually there's at least a little bit of bravado, or excitement but she just seems... calm. I guess that can be a sign of her training though – showing too much of your thoughts and emotions isn't a good thing.

And why would someone volunteer if they weren't trained? Besides the obvious answer of saving someone you care for, that is. Such selfless acts are rather rare in Panem, though, and it's clearly not the case here.

After the polite applause dies down, Vulpina skips over to the other reaping bowl. "And it's going to be... Homozygous Geno! Please come up to the stage, young man!" she calls, looking out at the crowd expectantly.

Oh. That's _my _name. Well, stranger things have happened, I'm sure. None come to mind immediately, but we'll pass that off as a side effect of the shock from hearing _my name_ called.

I bound up to the stage, grinning. I bow to Vulpina (the same way I greet my aunt – it drives her crazy and she's always screeching at me to improve my manners), which delights her.

"And how old are you?" she asks, much to my hidden annoyance. I know I'm short, thanks. There's no need to drive the point home. Besides, I walked out from my age group, which has a rather large sign that reads 14 in front of it. If she's that number illiterate... I don't even want to consider the thought.

"Fourteen, ma'am," I reply, holding one finger up on my right hand and four on my left, trying to be helpful. Not.

"Oh! You look much younger," Vulpina states, rather obviously. She turns back to the crowd. "Any volunteers-"

"Excuse me, I have the right to refuse a volunteer, right?" I interrupt. I'm tired of being told I'm young or short or anything like that. While those factors are important when it comes to achieving things, it doesn't mean I can't achieve anything. Look at Finnick Odair, one of the most famous Victors from District Four: he won the Hunger Games at fourteen. And he was executed as a rebel, but whatever. The fact remains that he won, before the rule change about two Victors. Admittedly, there were no winners under fifteen in the time between Odair's victory and the rule change...

"Well, yes," Vulpina agrees, sounding confused. "But you're a little... young, dear. Don't you think?"

I narrow my eyes at her. "Twelve year olds get reaped every year," I inform her coolly. Obviously the Capitol citizens are idiots, but that kind of blatant hypocrisy just makes me angry.

"Ah, of course, but-"

"So it's settled. This year's tributes from District Five are Amandine Lerner and Homo Geno." I gesture to myself and Amandine as I pronounce the standard conclusion to the reaping.

A stunned silence follows my announcement, then applause breaks out. Let it not be said that District Five is slow on the uptake.

I shake Amandine's hand, somehow unsurprised that her calluses match mine. So, she is trained. Her gaze is calm and assessing, but I just grin up at her.

We get escorted to the Justice Building, and it's there that I notice my carefully-chewed nails are not perfectly uniform and even. Ugh. I quickly gnaw the offender into submission, right in time for my visitors to arrive.

It's my parents, Sean, and his parents. None of them look happy with me. Well, it's not like I'm a stranger to being the only one who is pleased with my accomplishments... though Sean usually agrees with me too.

"Homo," my mother cries, engulfing me in a hug that, as always, makes me feel like a small child. "What were you _thinking_?"

That makes me feel a little guilty. If I die in the Hunger Games (let's face it, the odds of winning, for anybody, are pretty dismal) then my parents will be left childless. My mother once said, "Let's have a second child!" and I replied, "I think not," so I'm their only kid.

All the more reason to return triumphant, right?

I shrug. I wasn't really thinking anything though, to be honest. I felt angry about getting indirectly told I look short and kidlike, and that comment about my age just made me angrier, not only on my behalf, but on the behalf of the younger tributes that get reaped every year. Unlike me, who has had training, they have such a small chance of winning that it's negligible.

Was I planning to volunteer? No. Do I think I have a decent chance? Yes. I've been training for five years, and I'm smart. (Most people would tack 'aleck' to the end of that, and I'd be totally okay with that.)

"I felt like I could win," I answer, which is true in a way. "Don't you think so? You're my teacher, after all." My mother teaches at school and is also an instructor in the after curricular training programs. It can be awkward, but it also means that she has a good grasp of what my abilities are.

"... Yes," she replies reluctantly. "But I still wish you'd waited! Or hadn't volunteered at all! You can take over the pharmacy when your father retires," she adds, frowning.

"Sean can do that," I tell her, unimpressed by her line of reasoning.

"Did you know about this, Sean?" my aunt asks, knowing that Sean and I are as thick as thieves. Partners in crime. Two peas in a pod. I could go on, but I'll stop for now.

"No," he protests, waving his hands. "Homo didn't tell me anything," he adds, glaring at me.

I shrug. "Seemed like a good idea at the time, you know?"

Sean nods, but the adults all give me disapproving looks. That's a bit more normal. The only person who really understands me is Sean. Well, that's how I like it. I purposely do things so that most people don't get it. Or try to, anyway.

My father clears his throat. "It's not that we think you can't succeed, Homo," he explains. "We're just worried about you, and we wish you would have waited a few years before entering the Hunger Games."

I already knew that was why everyone was acting like this, but I nod anyway. My father knows I hate when people bring up my age or size and imply that such things limit my potential, so he knows how to phrase things in a certain way that I can't bring myself to get mad at him. "I know. But think of it this way – when I come back, I'll be one of the youngest Victors who actually won on their own merits," I point out.

This doesn't seem to comfort anyone except Sean, who gives me a weak grin.

"Anyway, I know you have to go back to work, guys," I tell the adults, before they can start talking again. They're worried, I get it. They can stop now. "Isn't there a party or something?"

"You're supposed to be helping with the preparation," my aunt adds sternly, as if she thinks I allowed myself to be reaped just to get out of cleaning up the house. Jeez. And the only thing _she_ does all day is clean the house and cook, so maybe she should be blaming herself, or something.

"Have fun, Sean," I say, mostly ignoring her as I smirk at my cousin. He gives me an annoyed look.

"You too, squirt," he responds, ruffling my already messy hair. "I know you'll give them hell."

Sean is the only person who can get away with making fun of my height (other than myself, of course), so I just grin again. "Of course."

The Peacekeepers usher my family out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. It really wasn't like me to impulsively volunteer (to stay as the reaped tribute) and I'm usually far better at controlling my emotions...

Well, there's no going back now. I'm sure most of the kids who get reaped each year convince themselves that, somehow, they have a chance of winning, be it based on their skill or on the mercy of their partner, but I don't think I'm being naive by thinking that I have a good chance. The only weapon I'm good at is the bow, but given my small size, it would be impractical to use any close range weaponry other than a knife. I can't remember a time when there hasn't been at least one bow in play; it's just a matter of getting my hands on it...

I spend the rest of my time in the fancy office thinking about my strategies for the Games. It's mainly questions of joining the Career Alliance or going off alone, and how I'm going to portray myself. I'm a pretty good actor – well, I'm good at being annoying – so I don't know if I want to be passed off as an irritating brat or a real threat. I'll leave that decision until I get a measure of the other Careers.

Amandine and I are silent on the car ride over, though I catch her staring at me with a thoughtful expression more than once. I'm doing the same, so I can't exactly call her on it.

The mentors ask us all sorts of layered questions, which I think both Amandine and I answer easily. I mean, District One's stereotype is beauty; Two's is strength – and Five's is intelligence.

We end up watching the reaping recap on the train (Vulpina arrived late, again; no one was surprised except herself) instead of in the Capitol as planned.

The Careers this year aren't all that impressive. The pair from District One is attractive, but Raelle is a bit young (not that that's much of a barrier in the Capitol, and she actually looks older than me despite being a year younger...) and Trance is more pretty than handsome. District Two's pair is short, rather than the imposingly tall and muscular tributes I'm used to seeing – taller than me, though, and they're both obviously strong and trained. As for District Seven... well, there's no Murdoch Clemens this year, but like the rest of the batch, they look like strong Careers. It's just that none of them are... exceptional.

I take note of several other tributes, wondering if they might be potential allies.

After eating my fill of the rich dinner (highlight: the green tea ice cream - it was _delicious_), I claim to be tired and go to bed. I end up falling asleep while planning my next move in the Hunger Games.

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><p>AN: (1) Paraphrased from Wikipedia, because while I know what a P. square is, I have no idea how to explain it in proper terms. XD

Aw, Homo. He's so cute. His creator described him as 'portable' actually, haha. :D

Feedback? Corrections? Concerns? Questions? Go for it ~


	12. Guarded Scientist: Amandine Lerner

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TEN<br>**

__the guarded scientist  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Amandine Lerner, female tribute of District Five<em>

Six years ago, if someone asked me what I wanted to do when I got older, I probably would have answered something along the lines of 'geneticist'. Well, that actually remains what I want to become when I'm 'older' – my ultimate goal is to perfectly combine the DNA of a human and an animal. It's true that mutts can have humanoid appearances, but they're actually based on the DNA of a monkey or an ape, with special adaptations to make them appear more human-like...

But the competition to earn the Capitol grants is quite intense, and only the best of the best ever succeed in getting them. I think I have the potential to earn one, to further my studies, but then there is the problem of performing according to the Capitol's expectations. A scientist's deadlines are set by the Capitol, and if they aren't met... At best, the scientist's career will be ruined; at worst, they'll be executed for abuse of the money. It's a good motivator.

But five years ago, I discovered another way to gain the proper funding, with far less (relative) risk:

Win the Hunger Games. If I win, I can choose the study of genetics as my talent – many of the Victors from District Five have similar talents – and there won't be any pressure for me to produce results, since the money will come from my own pocket. Admittedly, most Victors from other Districts have 'lighter' talents – like singing, or painting – but it's about doing something that you're good at and enjoy.

I may be getting ahead of myself. I have to win the Hunger Games before I can become a geneticist, and to win the Games I'll need to volunteer...

Usually I wouldn't have bothered getting to the reaping so early because our escort, Vulpina Coral, is notorious for being late to _everything_. Sure, there's something called being _fashionably late_, and the Capitol and its citizens are all about _fashion_ but on the other hand there are some things that it's just unacceptable to be late to.

Well, if I wasn't planning on volunteering, I probably wouldn't have dressed up this nicely for the reaping, so I guess I can (somewhat) understand. My parents, despite their reservations about my decision to volunteer (they know I can do it, they just don't want to see me put in danger), bought me the nice sleeveless dress and matching flats. It's a shimmering silver colour, and although I don't usually bother dressing up 'nicely', I really like it.

I didn't do anything with my hair, so the long black strands fall to just past my shoulders like always. I'm also wearing the silver charm necklace my training instructor, Mr. Bonsdeer, gave me for my seventeenth birthday. It says my name in delicate cursive writing; I've decided that it's going to be my token in the arena, as well.

My best friend, Daliana Parker, and I are standing at the front of the seventeen year old age group. I was planning to show up roughly on time, which would ensure my arrival before Vulpina's (she is never punctual) but Daliana convinced me to show up early because she heard about some 'supplementary class' being held by a younger kid.

There's an air of anticipation in the square, which isn't exactly new – District Five is one of the few Districts that looks forward to the reaping, probably because the kids that get sent off to die actually choose to do so – but it's more palpable than it usually is for the reaping.

I have to wonder how this extra class was organized – I've never heard of an event place before the reaping before. Doing so without proper authorization could get a person in a lot of trouble; the reaping (and anything else related to the Hunger Games) is sacred to the Capitol. They don't take flouting of the rules lightly.

Unless it has to do with the Careers One, Two, Five and Seven produce every year, naturally. Of course, there's always the threat of ending up like District Four (or worse, Nine), to keep us in line.

An excited hush falls over the crowd as a child walks onto the stage, toting a marker board. He's dressed up, with messily combed brown hair and large grey eyes. At first I think he must be under ten, but I soon realize that he must just be short for his age. He probably hasn't hit puberty yet.

I don't think he's twelve – most, if not all, of them would be too nervous about their first reaping to even consider doing something like this. If he is older than fifteen, I would be very surprised. If I had to guess his age, I'd go with fourteen.

"Ok, class," he begins, pacing around the stage restlessly. "Today, we're going to learn about Punnett squares. Does anyone know what that is?"

I raise my hand, as do most of the kids in the upper age groups. It's an instinct to answer any question asked in an educational context.

The kid points in my direction. "Um, yes, the black-haired girl at the front, Miss...?" he trails off, obviously waiting for my name.

"Lerner," I supply, then launch into the explanation. "A Punnett square is a diagram that can be used to figure out the possible outcomes of a breeding experiment." I learned this two years ago, in the introduction to biology. Does that mean this boy is fifteen? Another possibility is that he read ahead in the textbooks, which isn't such an uncommon practice here.

"Right," the kid agrees, and continues with the explanation of what the diagram looks like and how it works. I listen with only half an ear, more focused on the (hopefully imminent, but let's face it: Vulpina is always really late) arrival of the escort to start the reaping.

A shrill whistle interrupts the boy's explanation – accurate, from what I can gather – and he quickly disposes of the evidence and hops off the stage. As I suspected, he's fourteen; he melts into the crowd of that age group.

I wonder what that was all about? I try to look around, but since I'm only a little above average in height, I can't see anyone coming or going from the square.

It turns out to be Vulpina and our mayor. That's actually surprising, but I think everyone is glad that she showed up (somewhat) on time for once. Seriously, I think she's been the escort for a good twenty years, at least; I don't think she has ever once shown up less than an hour late. Only thirty minutes past the scheduled time is downright early for her.

"I think I'll just start my speech while the children to sign in, how does that sound, Vulpina?" the mayor remarks.

Vulpina makes a distracted noise of agreement – she has her phone pulled out and is scrolling through it.

That's professional.

About ten minutes later, the Victors of District Five (and there are quite a few of them) arrive in the square. A lot of them look like they just hastily threw on some nice clothes and didn't have time to do their hair. I guess they were counting on Vulpina's trademark tardiness, like most of the kids who are still in line to sign in.

I assume someone tipped the Victors off, since none of them were in evidence before that.

"Ok! Let's get started, everyone," our escort cheers enthusiastically. No one is really paying attention though, or at least they're not reacting. I'm paying attention, of course, but I'm not someone who's going to start cheering. I might be volunteering, but that doesn't mean the Hunger Games are my favourite thing ever because they're not.

Vulpina prances over to the female reaping bowl. "Is everyone ready for the first name? This year's lucky girl is... Esther Cline!" When Esther joins her on the stage, the escort adds, "Any volunteers this year, District Five?"

I was just waiting for her to ask. I raise my hand (habit) and call, "I volunteer!" about half a second earlier than several other older kids.

Vulpina smiles at me, but it seems rather plastic as far as I can tell. "Well, come on up to the stage!" she calls, though I'm already halfway to the stairs. "And what's your name?" Vulpina questions, when I get up there.

"Amandine Lerner," I answer into the microphone, keeping my voice controlled and calm. I spent a lot of time thinking about how I would present myself in my first appearance on camera, and decided on calm. I think it ties in nicely with the District's stereotype of intelligence and it also leaves me many options for later on. I don't have to stick to the bloodthirsty Career routine (which, let's face it, I doubt I could pull off anyway) or the nervous schoolgirl (I'll admit, there's a bit more truth to that one) or anything like that.

The crowd politely applauds me, and Daliana gives me a thumbs up.

Once the square is mostly quiet again (people are still talking, but that's how it always is), Vulpina skips over to the male reaping bowl. "And it's going to be... Homozygous Geno! Please come up to the stage, young man!" she announces brightly.

The boy from before, the one who was holding the impromptu class, bounds up to the stage. He has a big grin on his face, and he bows to Vulpina. Well; at least I know his name now, though I'm sure someone will volunteer for him in a moment or so.

"And how old are you?" she asks.

There's a moment of stunned silence – the age groups are clearly labelled and separated, and while he is a bit on the short side, as soon as he left the crowd of fourteen year olds it was obvious he was coming up to the stage.

"Fourteen, ma'am," he answers, holding one finger up on his right hand and four on his left. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same under the circumstances.

"Oh! You look much younger," Vulpina responds plainly, as if that's an excuse for her being practically blind. She turns away, dismissing Homozygous from her mind. "Any volunteers-" she begins to ask.

"Excuse me, I have the right to refuse a volunteer, right?" Homozygous interrupts shortly. I can't be sure, but I get the feeling that he is very annoyed, despite the fact that he still has the cute grin on his face.

If he ends up being my District partner, I'll have to keep an eye on him.

"Well, yes," Vulpina replies, but she sounds rather confused. "But you're a little... young, dear. Don't you think?"

I'd have to agree with her, but on the other hand it's a terrible thing to say. Obviously younger kids get reaped every year, in Districts where there are no volunteers, and no one says anything on their behalf when that happens.

"Twelve year olds get reaped every year," Homozygous tells her seriously, the smile disappearing from his face.

"Ah, of course, but-" Vulpina tries to turn the conversation around – possibly trying to make sure that the Capitol gets its full quota of Careers this year. For that matter, I have to wonder why Homozygous would want to refuse any volunteers on his behalf. He could be trained, since there are several training centers and I obviously only attend one of them, which would be the only logical explanation. If he was just mad about her comment about age, that doesn't seem to be enough reason to do something so bold.

Because it's true, the older tributes naturally have better chances of surviving the Hunger Games than the younger kids. It's survival of the fittest, with the person best adapted to the arena and fighting their competition who usually wins. Younger kids are not best suited to fighting older, strong ones.

"So it's settled. This year's tributes from District Five are Amandine Lerner and Homo Geno," the boy states loudly, waving at me and then himself. I guess his nickname is Homo? You'd think that's the sort of nickname a person would want to avoid, but this kid is obviously one weird guy.

A stunned silence follows the announcement, then applause breaks out.

That's pretty much how I feel, actually. Stunned, but at the same time I have to admire this boy's guts.

But was it really wise to voice such things aloud? It could be construed as rebellion.

Homo and I shake hands, and although his hand is small (like a kid's) I can feel calluses on it. In a place like District Five, where most of the work is done in labs, the only place he could have gotten them is in training.

I'm actually almost a foot taller than him. I could probably pick him up, tuck him under my arm and away we'd go.

Not that I'm going to do that; but the possibility remains.

Daliana shows up first to visit me in the Justice Building. I guess she practically ran here to get to me first, since she seems slightly out of breath. Or maybe she's just excited.

"I'm glad you got the spot, Amandine," she says quietly, giving me a hug. Daliana isn't a particularly outspoken (a trait we share) and I think I'm probably the only person outside of her family that she would willingly hug. It goes a long way to ease the anxiety that I'm feeling.

I wanted to volunteer, but even so there are doubts. I'm sure every volunteer has them, and for good reason.

"Yeah, if I'd waited I wouldn't have gotten in this year at all," I agree, smiling.

Daliana nods. "The others were pretty upset, especially the eighteen year olds," she tells me. "Can you believe that boy? He must be confident..."

I shrug. Homo seems to be trained, so he has a chance, but I can't shake the feeling that he was really annoyed, and that this is what prompted him to react that way.

"Well, whatever the reason, I can't just dismiss him," I reply. To an extent this is true to all tributes – some of them act weak so that no one will bother killing them, and then in the end they turn into ruthless killers and eliminate the few tributes who remain.

"Of course," my friend agrees. "But I'm sure you'll be able to get to know him soon enough. I tried asking around before, but no one seemed to know anything about him," she adds apologetically. "He's three years below us, after all..."

"That's okay; like you said, I'll get to know him soon," I tell her. "Thanks anyway."

From there, our conversation turns to strategies for the Games. Finally, Daliana apologetically tells me that she has to babysit her brother(they live with their mother) because her mother is working overtime.

I assure her that it's fine, and after a last hug, she bids me goodbye and leaves.

Mr. Bonsdeer, the instructor who first realized that I had real potential to be a tribute, is my next visitor.

"Your parents are waiting outside," he tells me first off. "They wanted to be the last ones to see you, Amandine."

I nod; that sounds like them. "Thanks for coming, Mr. Bonsdeer," I say sincerely. I doubt most instructors would bother to come to see their students off.

He grins at me. "Not at all! I'm always pleased to see my pupils succeed. I know you can do it, Amandine. You're one of the most talented I've ever trained," he praises me, coaxing a smile from me. I know that he's not one to praise without cause.

"Thanks," I repeat. "I wouldn't be here without all your help... But it's a bit soon to be celebrating, right?" I add, not wanting to get too confident before even entering the arena.

"Ah, of course. But it's nice to be secure as a volunteer," he agrees. I know Mr. Bonsdeer volunteered every year since he was sixteen, but he never got picked; I think that he lives vicariously through the kids he trains that volunteer.

Well, I can't begrudge him that.

"So, you're taking the necklace I gave you as your token?" he asks jokingly, and looks pretty surprised when I nod in agreement.

"You said it would remind me of who I am," I explain, a little self-consciously. I thought for a long time about what I wanted my token to be. Some kids don't give it much thought, but... Well, to fall back on that old refrain, District Five is the place for the thinkers. "So that's why I decided to bring it."

Mr. Bonsdeer grins at me, obviously pleased with this answer. "That's an excellent idea," he agrees, and then we pick up the conversation that Daliana and I left off a few minutes ago, discussion about the Games. He doesn't have any more information about Homo than Daliana did, except for this tidbit: apparently his mother is an instructor at another training center. Does that mean Homo has extra or special training?

Mr. Bonsdeer gives me a hearty pat on the shoulder when the Peacekeepers appear to hustle him out, and then my parents walk into the room.

There's a moment of awkward silence, and then they pull me into a tight embrace. I know this is hard for them; they both grew up without parents, and now their only child is leaving them to compete in the Hunger Games. Despite that, after voicing their opinion and hearing my response, they supported my decision even though they don't agree.

After all, even in a place with as relatively good a standard of living as District Five, parents can't shelter and protect their kids from the world forever.

"Good luck, Amandine," my father tells me, trying to sound cheerful but failing pretty spectacularly. He's always worried about others over himself, but even he can't hide his worry from me. Not that I want him to, either.

"Not that you'll need it," my mother puts in. "We know you'll come back."

I nod mutely, not sure that I can trust myself to speak. In spite of my conviction, I feel a bit tearful. We sit in silence, still in our family hug. It's comforting, and I find that I don't need words.

I give my parents a brave smile when it's time for them to leave, and almost before I know it I'm on the train to the Capitol.

We're not en-route yet, of course; Vulpina is late again, but what else is new?

The mentors pepper Homo (who remains a mystery that I am determined to solve) and I with layered questions, but if anything the mental stimulus prevents me from thinking too much about the fact that I'm leaving behind the only home I've ever known.

We watch the reaping recap on the train (because _someone_ was late, causing our schedule to become all messed up). The volunteers (the Careers) all look like strong competitors, although none of them really stand out. There are a few reaped tributes who I make notes of – there's a handsome, flirtatious boy from District Ten who I'm sure would be popular with the sponsors, and a tough-looking boy from Four, as well as an intense girl from District Thirteen, among others.

Thirteen will probably try to get in with the Careers. The serious volunteers (as this girl seems to be) always do. I wonder if District Four or Ten will make any such attempts?

I guess I'll have to wait for training to see.

I find my eyelids drooping after another lavish meal for supper, and go to bed as soon as I can make the excuse. I'll have all of tomorrow to think about the Games; tomorrow is the chariot rides, which don't start until late afternoon when the tributes from District Twelve finally arrive...

* * *

><p>AN: And we're done with District Five! Almost halfway there..! The Career reapings are almost done with, as well.

Amandine is one of my favourite characters, I think. But then, I like a lot of the characters people submitted ~

Well, there's not a lot for me to say... I enjoyed writing this chapter.

Feedback is appreciated, dear readers! And thank you to everyone who continues to review. You all make me smile. :)


	13. Victor's Son: Neven Odeal

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER ELEVEN<br>**

__the Victor's son  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Neven Odeal, male tribute of District Six<em>

Every year, on this day, my mom stays up all night. I know this because I can hear her pacing back and forth in the living room. The floor creaks rhythmically, in time with her steps. My bedroom is right above the living room.

My home is one of the rare houses in District Six that has a second storey.

Only the houses in the Victor's Village, and the mayor's house, have a second storey, for that matter.

The reason my mother stays up the entire night before the reaping is because she is afraid that tomorrow, the day of the reaping, I will be reaped.

It makes no sense, considering the children of Victors never take out any tesserae; they only have the minimum amount of entries in the reaping bowls, yet the number of them chosen for the Hunger Games over the years suggests otherwise.

I'm fifteen; this is my third reaping. There are three slips of paper in that reaping bowl this year. I've survived two reapings, but the anxiety my mother feels is infectious. The sound of her footsteps is grating rather than soothing in its endless rhythm, so that I only fall asleep in the early hours of the morning.

I'm not in the best of moods when I wake up on reaping day.

Despite the executioner's blade hovering over my head, and the fact that my mother's winnings are such that I don't have to take on a part-time job to supplement the family's earnings, I've never trained for the Hunger Games. My mother won her Hunger Games by running and hiding the whole time. Her partner ended up defeating all the other tributes, and my mother won by default. The only thing she would possibly be able to teach me is how to hide... And I think that's fairly common sense.

I've never gone hungry; I've had more than I need, actually, for my whole life. I'm the only kid at my school that is overweight. Everyone else is underfed and scrawny, especially compared to me.

They resent me for my life of privilege. I won't pretend to envy their hardscrabble life.

I don't have any friends, but that's fine by me. My parents (well, my mother really) give me everything I could want.

Sometimes I find it a bit lonely, though. Like when I'm standing alone at the front of the fifteen year old age group. There's a girl that looks vaguely familiar (I have a few classes with her, I think) standing a distance away from me, also alone.

I could try to talk to her, but I don't see any point. I know from experience that some girls just want to get with me so that they can get a piece of my mother's victory money. No, thanks.

I watch the stage for any sign of my mother. She has to leave early every reaping day, to attend some meeting of the Victors. It's to decide who gets to mentor this year, and my mother gets the duty a disproportionate amount of the time. Despite hating the Games, she still feels that the tributes should have the benefit of at least one sober mentor.

Most of Six's Victors are morphlings.

I think without my father and me, my mother might have followed that path. Fortunately, she has us to keep her sane and grounded.

The Victors all file onto the stage, most of them with distracted or vacant expressions on their faces. Like I said, morphlings.

I absently straighten my blue dress shirt, my mind wandering back to this morning. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, besides the fact that both my mother and I were in foul moods. My father seemed distracted as he always does when he's around (he's the foreman of the biggest electricity generator in Six, and I'd say he's married to his job), so he didn't notice. Breakfast was the same as usual; since my mother is so rich, I always have good, hearty meals.

As evidenced by my chubby build.

I flick my too-long bangs out of my eyes. If you didn't know my mother was one of the few Victors in the District, I'd be totally unremarkable. My hair is the plainest sort of brown imaginable, and my eyes are a dull gray. I'm average height for my age, too. The only thing that really sets me apart is the fact that I'm not the unhealthy sort of skinny that characterizes most people in the Districts.

About fifteen minutes after the Victors appear, our escort (Hex Relic) and the mayor show up.

The mayor gives his usual speech, which I don't bother listening to. I catch my mother's gaze and we share small smiles of reassurance.

Hex steps up to the microphone and launches into his spiel. "Happy reaping day, District Six! Is everyone ready for the Hunger Games?" the fiery-haired man asks brightly. No one replies, but Hex seems oblivious to the awkward silence as he continues, "We'll pick ladies first, I think."

I watch with a detached sort of interest, since my name isn't in that reaping bowl. I don't care which unlucky girl gets reaped, to be honest.

"Kantara Swearin! Please come to the stage," Hex calls, his blood-red fringe flopping almost comically across his forehead.

The girl from my class – Kantara, presumably – that is standing at the front gives a choked sort of cry. I doubt she's even aware that she made it. She's standing there rigidly, her shock and disbelief obvious on her face.

Someone else that I vaguely recognize as a classmate gives the frozen girl a shove, and she staggers forward a step, then another, until she's standing on the stage beside Hex.

My gaze switches to Hex, dismissing Kantara from my mind. I (and the rest of Panem, I'm sure) have written her off as a bloodbath tribute. The fact is, most tributes from Six fall into that category. There's nothing to set her apart from them.

Hex saunters over to the other reaping bowl, the one that has _Neven Odeal_ on three scraps of paper amidst the thousands of other slips. He delicately plucks one out, seemingly at random.

"And the male tribute of District Six this year will be... Neven Odeal!" Hex announces.

I freeze. My name. That's my name. I didn't- Sure, my mother said as much, and I've seen the kids of Victors get reaped at least every second year but I never... I never seriously thought that _my_ name would be uttered by our escort.

It's the stifled cry of denial from my mother that finally sets me in motion. I force myself to walk up to the stage and try not to look at her. I know I probably look terrified – I couldn't hide my emotions to save my life. I'm afraid that looking at my mother will cause the tenuous hold on my tears that I have to fail completely.

"Any volunteers, District Six?" Hex asks, when I join Kantara on the stage.

Has anyone ever volunteered in Six? I don't think so. there's no reason that this year would be any different, either.

After a few moments of exceedingly awkward silence, Hex continues, "Well, that's settled then! Kantara Swearin! Neven Odeal! These are your tributes for the 324th Hunger Games, District Six!"

I shake Kantara's hand. Mine is clammy with sweat, but so is hers. I try not to touch her hand too much, and I don't meet her terrified gaze.

I'd probably just see myself reflected in there. District Six, as usual, has produced its annual quota of two bloodbath tributes for the Hunger Games.

My father is the only person who comes to visit. He seems very distracted (as usual) but for the first time in a while it actually bothers me. I'm being sent off to my death. He could at least _look_ at me, instead of staring off into space.

Sometimes I wonder why he married my mother at all. It wasn't for the money, but he doesn't seem to love me or her either.

All he does is talk about his work. In the middle of a tirade about the negative productivity of some random employee, I finally burst out,

"Dad, shut up. Can you focus on me for _one second_. I'm being sent to my death. You could at least do me the courtesy of not talking about your stupid, boring job. I don't care." My voice is clipped and blunt, but the anger is a good way for me to distract myself from the Hunger Games.

"I-" he's obviously taken aback. Usually my mother and I just ignore him; this is the first time either of us told him to stop talking about the job no one except him cares about.

"Look, we don't talk, and that's fine. There's no need to start now. You don't have to stay here out of some... some sense of _duty_," I finally say. I think this could be the reason why he married my mother. She got pregnant, and he felt that he needed to marry her. It was his _duty_.

What an awful reason.

"Neven, what-"

Fortunately, the Peacekeeper guarding the room makes an appearance and tells my father his time is up. I think we're both relieved.

My mother, I assume, has secured the position of mentor this year (again). Mentors can't visit tributes during the hour reserved for goodbyes (farewells). I distract myself by thinking about what sorts of food will be on the train, where I will see my mother and Kantara's mentor.

I've had Capitol food before, during the Victory Tours (as a Victor's child, I get to see at the table with the newest Victor every year) but it's still delicious.

I wonder if it will taste different now that I know they're just fattening me up to sacrifice on the altar of the Hunger Games.

Finally (but far too soon at the same time) the Peacekeeper escorts me and Kantara to the car, and then the train station. The reporters shout all sorts of questions at me – _do you plan on following in your mother's footsteps; how does it feel to be reaped; what's your plan for the arena, Neven?_ – but I just ignore them.

I imagine all the Victors' children who get reaped (most of them, frankly) go through a similar ordeal.

My mother hugs me as soon as I walk into the dining car, which makes my day slightly better.

"Neven," she cries, tears in her eyes. Snow, now I'm starting to tear up too. "I'll think of something... You'll win, somehow..."

Most of the train ride goes like this, but even with my mother fussing over me, I can't miss the listless man (a morphling, shockingly) that is Kantara's mentor. Or the resigned expression on Kantara's face. Or Hex's obnoxious one-sided conversation into his cell phone. He's complaining about the pathetic tributes he gets every year in District Six.

Kantara looks especially scrawny; in one sitting, she eats about as much food as I'd eat in three days. But I can't begrudge her for being poor. At least the Capitol celebrates their sacrifices in style in the days before they enter the arena to die for the Capitol's entertainment.

I can't feel the same, though. I've experienced most of this luxury before; the room I get assigned in the Training Center isn't all that much more expansive and comfortable than the one I have back home. The food is good, but I've tasted it before.

The high-definition television is hardly impressive, either. It's better than the one I have, but the fact that I'm watching my future killer and other kids like me during the reaping recap dampens the effect pretty spectacularly.

The Careers are terrifying. I've watched the Hunger Games. Some of them are downright _vicious_. In some cases, it might be better to die in the bloodbath; at least at the beginning, on that first day, they don't have the luxury of dragging your death out because they have to secure all of the supplies for themselves.

The thought somehow doesn't comfort me. Neither does the thought that none of the volunteers this year look really scary. I'm sure they're all trained in about fifty different ways to kill a large, slow target like me.

Finally, I can't take my mother's fussing anymore and flee to my bedroom. It takes me a long time to fall asleep, but somehow I manage it.

* * *

><p>AN: This is rushed and shorter, but I had like no inspiration for Neven. Between you and me, he's not going to make it far, so I didn't put as much effort into fleshing out his character. Oops, was that a spoiler ~ ? 8D

Next chapter should be up within the next two days as well. I think I'm updating at a pretty good pace, but maybe that's just me.

Anyway, dear readers, I would adore your feedback. :)


	14. Controlling Loner: Kantara Swearin

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWELVE<br>**

__the controlling loner  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Kantara Swearin, female tribute of District Six<em>

On the fifth page of my diary, there is a list of things that I want to accomplish in my life. I've never told anyone about this list, but on the other hand... there's no one for me to tell, anyway. I wouldn't tell my parents, or my brothers; and I don't have any friends.

The only thing that I confide in is my diary, really. I bring it everywhere that I go. When I'm feeling particularly morbid, I tell myself that if I ever get reaped, the leather-bound book with expensive parchment pages would be my token.

The list reads this:

_Break free from my father_ (this is still a work in progress, but with every birthday I get closer to the age when I can move out; only three more years until I'm eighteen)

_Have perfect grades_ (so far, so good)

and _Marry someone controllable_.

The last part stems from my need to be in control of every aspect of my life. My father dominates the family, so I don't often get to control a lot of the things I do. I don't want to become like my mother, a woman who sits listlessly off to the side while her husband takes out his anger on their children. I'm going to be the one in charge, not the other way around.

My father insists that the three of us (Cordan, myself and Chip) can wear each other's hand-me-downs on reaping day. Cordan is only a year older than me, so any clothes of his that I get are in pretty good condition, but there's still the issue of him being a boy and me being a girl. I hate showing up in pants when every other girl wears a nice dress, or at least a skirt, to the reaping.

This year, I saved and scrounged around for as much money as I could, but I still couldn't afford a skirt, much less a dress, when I went to the tailor's. They did have some nice curtains when I went, though, so I bought a black one. I've tried it a couple of times, and if I pin it a certain way, it just looks like a full length skirt, not a curtain.

I still have to wear the gray button down shirt that Cordan wore a couple of years ago, but it goes nicely with my pseudo-skirt, I think.

Breakfast is the same as always, except we get fresh oranges which are a rare treat in District Six. I carefully eat each wedge, chewing the soft fruit away from the peel. My brothers eat really messily, which earns my father's ire (but that's nothing new either) and I just keep my head down.

I cut my two slices of toast into four identical sections, then slather them individually with the cheap margarine that is all our family can afford.

Like I said, I try to control every aspect of my life that I can.

Once I'm done, I quietly clear my plate away and disappear into the room I share with my two brothers (another thing that I hate; it's hard being the only girl) so that I can change before they get here.

I tuck my diary into the small bag that I carry everywhere, and glance at my reflection in the cracked full-length mirror behind the door. Presentable, if barely. I tuck my wavy blonde hair behind my ears, not for the first time wishing that I had a bit more to eat. I'm pretty short, and I'm not in that nice range between slim and slender; I'm firmly in the 'underfed' side of skinny, and my pale skin always looks sickly.

At least my clothes are nice; and I like my hair.

Someone bangs on the door.

"Kantara! Aren't you done yet," Chip whines through the flimsy thing.

"Yes, coming," I call, checking the pins on my curtain-skirt. They'll hold, and I've artfully hidden them in the folds of the fabric. I open the door and Chip brushes past me, followed by Cordan. Chip isn't old enough to be in the reaping yet, but Cordan and I both are.

"See you at the reaping," Cordan says, right before he shuts the door in my face.

"See you," I echo, walking towards the front of the house. I'm hoping my father is getting ready too so that I can slip out unnoticed – but no such luck, of course.

"Where'd you get that skirt?" he demands as I walk past the opening to the kitchen.

I suppress my flinch. "I bought it a few weeks ago," I answer quietly.

"Bought it?" he snaps, eyes narrowing. I don't dare look right at him, but instead glance through my bangs. It's not a good sign. My father has a very short temper, which, coupled with his frustrations about his low-paying job and the trouble my brothers invariably get into, can be very explosive.

"I've been working part-time and saving up," I explain, hating the slight tremble in my voice.

My father snorts. "I'm sure. From now on, you're not to spend that money on yourself, selfish girl," he adds viciously. "This family needs that money."

I nod. "Yes sir," I whisper, glancing down at the worn leather shoes I've had for almost five years now. Cordan had them for at least two before that. Never mind that Cordan and I both take out five tesserae each to help keep the family afloat.

"Get going, then," he snaps, and I flee without another word, though I do glance back once.

My mother is sitting beside my father, staring blankly at her empty plate. I didn't even know she was there.

Since I left so early, I'm one of the first people to sign in, and there's no line to wait in at all. I hang around near the front of the area sectioned off for the fifteen year olds. No one wants to stand at the front if they can help if, so this way I can be relatively alone.

As the clock edges closer to noon, more and more people start to show up. District Six has around eight living Victors at the moment, but more than half of them seem out of it: Morphling addiction. For some reason, my District has a lot of morphling addicts.

Finally, our escort – Hex Relic, a young man with fiery (literally, different shades of red, orange and yellow are dyed in) hair – and the mayor come onto the stage.

After the mayor finishes his speech, Hex takes his place and gets to the part that everyone listens to.

"Happy reaping day, District Six! Is everyone ready for the Hunger Games?" Hex cheers brightly. In the awkward silence that follows, he continues, "We'll pick ladies first, I think."

I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking _not my name, please don't pick my name_ when Hex reaches for the first name.

"Kantara Swearin! Please come to the stage," Hex announces, his blood-red fringe flopping almost comically across his forehead.

Wait- that's my name.

I flinch, and for a second it feels like all of the air has been sucked right out of the town square. I can't breathe, can't move, can't do anything except stare dumbly up at the escort.

Then someone gives me a shove and I stumble onto the small path between the age groups and the stage. I force my leaden legs into motion, the rhythm of left-right, left-right distracting me from the fact that I'm walking up to the stage and from there, to be sent to my _death_.

I glance at the Victors sitting behind me; one of them is going to be my mentor. I hope at least one of the mentors for District Six this year isn't a morphling; it would be even better if that person ended up being _my_ mentor.

What am I thinking? It's not like I have a chance in the Hunger Games anyway.

Standing up on stage, feeling the whole of the District staring at me is the worst feeling I have ever experienced. I keep my gaze fixed on the bakery, the building directly across from the square. Before today, I thought the stifled, trapped feeling that I felt when my father (in one of his many fits of rage) locked me in the shed out back.

Nope; this is worse.

"And the male tribute of District Six this year will be... Neven Odeal!" Hex announces, pulling my District partner's name out of the reaping bowl.

I know him: he's in my class at school. We've never spoken before, but... I do know him. Everyone knows him, by reputation or otherwise: his mother is one of the few Victors in Six. Even rarer, I don't think she's a morphling addict either.

I hear a choked cry of denial from behind me – it must be Neven's mother. I feel sorry for her, despite my own rather depressing situation. Neven is chubby, and if he's done a day's hard work in his life I would be surprised. Does he have any chance at all in the Hunger Games? No more than I do, and probably less for that matter.

Neven comes up onto the stage to stand beside me. He looks pretty scared; I probably look the same. I'm a little surprised to find that I'm not crying. I guess the shock is keeping the realization at bay.

"Any volunteers, District Six?" Hex asks, tossing his head so that his hair flickers and flutters like a real fire.

No one volunteers, of course.

I don't think anyone from District Six has ever volunteered in the entire 324 years of the Hunger Games, for that matter.

"Well, that's settled then! Kantara Swearin! Neven Odeal! These are your tributes for the 324th Hunger Games, District Six!" Hex proclaims as I shake Neven's hand. Both of our palms are clammy with sweat, and we don't meet each other's eyes. Neven's grip is really loose too, like he doesn't even want to be touching me. Well, the feeling is mutual.

I'm shaking as the Peacekeepers escort Neven and me to the Justice Building. As the minutes tick past, I start to wonder if anyone at all is going to come to see me. I mean, I have no friends, but I still have a family. Where are they? Chip and Cordan would come to see me, at least. Right..?

My gaze sweeps the room. The couch isn't perfectly straight against the wall. I painstakingly adjust it, then do the same to the rest of the furniture. This is me trying to control my environment when the events of my life have spiralled beyond my control.

It's not working very well; I'm starting to almost hyperventilate. Where _are_ they?

Finally, Chip, Cordan and my mother show up. My mother – I hadn't even considered her.

Cordan awkwardly hugs me – since we're only a year apart, we're often at odds, but we can put our differences aside on important occasions. Like me being sent to my death.

"It'll be okay, Kantara," Cordan says, but he doesn't sound terribly convincing (or convinced) at all.

Chip just pulls out a marker and starts drawing on the wall. He does this all the time, and our father always gives him hell for it. I'm used to it by now, but for some reason seeing him do so just sets me off. I snatch the marker out of his hand and throw it against the wall.

"What are you doing?" I demand furiously, feeling the anger and hopeless welling up inside of me. Somewhere in the back of my mind alarm bells are going off – _just like Dad, you're acting just like_ – but I ignore them. "You're not a baby, you brat. You're _nine_, do you understand? In three years you're going to be in the reaping! How can you just- act like _nothing_ has happened?" My voice rises with every word, to the point that I'm yelling. I never yell, but I can't stop myself. I don't know if I want to stop myself. "I got reaped. You do know what that means, don't you? I'm going to die, and you're just going to draw on the wall like always."

Saying it out loud makes it real. I blink and take a step away from Chip, who's staring at me like he has never seen me before. I slump onto the couch, feeling tears slip down my cheeks. I'm going to _die_.

"Kantara," Chip says miserably, tears welling up in his eyes as well. "I didn't mean to- I thought it would make you feel better..." he explains awkwardly, swallowing.

"You shouldn't take your anger out on your brother, Kantara," my mother puts in. I don't know what this says about our relationship, but I honestly can't remember the last time my mother spoke to me beyond everyday requests like _put away the dishes_ or _do the laundry_.

The three of us look at her like she's insane. Since when has she _ever_ spoken up to our father about reining in his temper, huh? And now she's scolding me for freaking out about _my imminent death_. My father's reasons for getting angry are insignificant compared to that. If anything, I feel even angrier now that she said that.

"It's okay, I know you're just stressed," Chip assures me, breaking the silence. He gives me a hug, which feels slightly less awkward than the one Cordan gave me a few minutes before, and helps me calm down slightly.

Cordan frowns but changes the subject. "Do you have a token, Kantara?" he asks doubtfully. We don't have much, so of course there isn't much in the way of objects for me to have as a token.

Luckily, I have my most prized possession with me: my diary. If it wasn't so morbid, I would find it ironic that I was contemplating what my token would be only a few hours before now. It seems so long ago.

I nod. "My diary," I answer.

Chip grins weakly. "Of course," my brothers say at the same time.

"Is that really practical?" my mother questions.

"Practical things aren't allowed," Cordan responds, his frown reappearing. Chip is looking uncertainly from our brother to our mother. Usually Cordan gets along with everyone in the family (barring our father) so this is a pretty significant change. "If Kantara wants to bring her diary, I think she should," he adds.

"Can I... write something in it, Kantara?" Chip asks timidly, retrieving his marker from the corner I threw it into. "I won't write anything stupid, I promise," he adds.

While my first reaction to someone else writing in the thick pages is to reject the thought, I decide to hand the book over. "Sure, Chip."

He takes it and walks away from the rest of us, leaving an awkward silence behind as he scribbles something in the front cover.

A knock breaks the silence, and a gruff, "Time's up," from the Peacekeeper spurs us into motion. My mother gives me a hug, which I stiffly endure but don't return. Cordan squeezes my hand twice, like he used to when we were younger, and then ushers my mother out ahead of him. I'm glad; if she said something else I don't know how I'd react.

"Here, Kantara," Chip says, shoving the diary back into my hand. He trots out after Cordan, then stops just inside the door. "I mean what I wrote, by the way... Bye, Kantara." He gives me a bright grin and closes the door behind himself.

I stare at the book in my hands for the longest time, debating where or not to read what Chip wrote. My musings are interrupted when the Peacekeeper outside comes to escort me to the car, and from there to the train station at the edge of town.

Neven seems to be sulking, with his pudgy arms crossed over his large torso as he stares out the window. I wonder what it must be like, to have enough food to eat and more, so that you get to be overweight like he is.

Hally Odeal (Neven's mom) and a man who's so stoned he just stares listlessly out the window are this year's mentors. I'll give you three guesses as to who's my mentor, and I'll give you a hint: my mentor isn't a mother.

Hally spends most of the time attempting to soothe Neven, though she's the one who seems hysterical. Hex is jabbering away into his cell phone, loudly complaining about the 'pathetic tributes' he got this year (well, what as he expecting?) and how he hopes he'll get promoted soon. Yeah, right. And my morphling mentor is silent the whole train ride.

At least the food is good – or it looks good, anyway. I scarf down enough food to feed my family for a week, but I don't taste it.

We arrive in the station at the Capitol, but I can't bring myself to be excited by the soaring skyscrapers and flickering neon lights.

Dinner at the Training Center passes in the same fashion as the train ride. Watching the reaping recap is awful, and I flee to my spacious bedroom (practically the same size as our whole house) afterward, tears prickling at my eyes.

I lie curled up on the soft bed, my diary clutched to my chest. I open it to the front cover, where Chip left me his message:

_Good luck, Kantara. I believe in you. Please come back._

_Love, Chip._

The tears do come then, though I'm careful to move my diary so that my tears don't ruin the writing. Eventually my sobs subside and I manage to slip into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>AN: I actually wrote this chapter before Neven's, because I forgot to copy his profile onto my hard drive. Ah, well.

Is it just me, or my chapters getting more and more summary-like? Hm...

Also, we're halfway there..! (To the chariot rides, that is.) I'm excited. XD

Feedback, dear readers, is very much appreciated ~


	15. Focused Career: Wolf Fischer

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<br>**

__the focused career  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Wolfram "Wolf" Fischer, male tribute of District Seven<em>

I have memories of watching the Hunger Games since I was very small, but I didn't really understand them, back then. I knew people dying was bad; I knew that District Seven had a disproportionate amount of Victors (less than One, Two or Five, but far more than any of the other Districts – except perhaps Thirteen) because we were a Career District; and I knew that winning the Hunger Games meant a life of luxury.

I wasn't sure how I felt about the annual bloodstained Games. They were good, because the very poor could suddenly jump to being the richest of the rich; but people died, and that was bad. So were the Hunger Games (and District Seven, for that matter) good or bad?

I didn't know.

Then I watched the 317th Hunger Games. I'd seen one other District Seven tribute successfully win the Hunger Games before, but I was very little at the time. I was ten, now.

It was down to the final three: Anya Ash (District Seven) and a pair of tributes, one of whom was a Career from another District. Anya was the only person who stood between the pair and victory – the odds were stacked heavily against her, to say the least.

Somehow, she did it. I was glued to the television for hours as Anya stalked (and was stalked by) the other two tributes. Other people might have given up, but Anya was determined to win and she did it with skill and style.

Like I said, I didn't have any thoughts for or against the Hunger Games at that point, but after seeing Anya battle her way to victory, I was determined that one day it would be me in Anya's spot. I would volunteer for the Hunger Games, and I would win.

I've been training for seven years, now. At seventeen, I think it's time that I volunteered. If I don't make it this year, there's always next year, but I feel like I'm ready now.

Like all of the tributes from my District, an axe is my weapon of choice, but I'm decent at most others. Could I take another tribute out at fifty feet with a bow and arrow – no. Could I reliably hit a target during training – yes.

My trainer – one of Seven's numerous Victors – tells me that the other Career Districts have training centers under various guises. Two's is the most effective, while One and Five have multiple training centers. Here in Seven, the Victors train potential tributes in their spare time (which, let's face it, they have a lot of) and they only take the kids they think are promising.

I don't know what the difference is – maybe the availability of multiple instructors who specialize in different areas, versus the way us Seven Careers are limited to one trainer? Either way, we don't have quite as many Victors as the other Careers Districts.

Of course, we have a much larger pool of Victors than the non-Career Districts, but that really goes without saying.

My trainer isn't mentoring this year. He mentored last year; the duty cycles between the mentors, from oldest to youngest. Except when there's a new Victor, in which case that person gets to mentor. That's the tradition in all the Districts, though.

This year, the mentors are Anya Ash and Murdoch Clemens, who is last year's Victor. So, assuming that I manage to secure the volunteer position this year, Murdoch will be my mentor...

"...Wolf. Wolf!" my father says sharply, slapping me none-too-gently on the shoulder.

I blink, startled out of my musings. "What?" I ask, glancing from my slightly annoyed father to my mother. We're sitting in the dining room, a lavish brunch (by District Seven standards; I'm sure this is average – or a bit below that – to a Capitol citizen) spread on the table before us.

I must have zoned out, thinking about the Hunger Games and what has led me to this point... Admittedly, it's not that rare an occurrence. I have extraordinary focus, but it's not necessarily a good thing because I tend to disregard other things when I get caught up in something.

"Nothing, really. But you need to focus, son," my father says sternly. "If you're planning on volunteering, you can't zone out or you'll miss your chance," he adds.

I nod, despite the fact that I know this already. He means well, and I know he's proud of me. "Sorry, I was just thinking about what will happen in the Hunger Games this year," I explain.

"It's good to think about these things," my mother agrees. "But you need to pay attention to what's happening now as well as thinking about what's to come."

I nod again. I can't help that I'm so focused though. It's just how I am. I'm horrible at multitasking. "I'll keep that in mind," is all I can say without lying.

"Good. Do you want to do some training before the reaping?" my mother asks.

I glance down at my empty plate. I'm a bit surprised I ate everything, to be honest. I'm a bit nervous. But I guess I wasn't really paying attention when I was eating, either. "I still have to shower and get ready..." I hedge. Training now, last minute like this, would be like cramming before a test in school – not necessarily helpful, and in a worst case scenario actually detrimental. I'll have time in the Capitol to train.

My parents both look a little disappointed. They're both extremely supportive of me, and actually helped to push me to be as good as I am today. They're just as enthusiastic as me (if not more so) about training.

My father owns one of the many lumber yards in District Seven, while my mother is the manager. As a result, we're pretty rich and have a nice house with a spacious yard. There are targets and practice dummies set up in our backyard for me to practice outside of training, which I usually take advantage of. But today, I don't feel like it.

"That's a good idea," my father says at length. "Wouldn't want to be late to the reaping, after all. Are you meeting up with Shamia beforehand?" he asks, naming my girlfriend.

The answer to that question? I don't know. Shamia probably mentioned it, but I don't pay that much attention to her. The order of my priorities is: training, practicing outside of training, school, and at the very end is 'social life'. At the moment, the only person my age whom I consider to be more than a mere acquaintance is Shamia, but I'd say our relationship is more out of convenience than any devotion.

At least on my part. Lately Shamia has been acting really funny about my decision to volunteer and she complains that I don't spend enough time with her.

I just shrug in response to my father's question. "Probably. I'd better get going, in that case." I carry my dirty dishes to the kitchen then disappear into the bathroom for a shower.

The theme of my reaping outfit is 'black': Black button up collared black shirt, with black pants, and a black tie. Oh, and black leather shoes, of course. My hair is also black, but I never let it grow longer than an inch, otherwise it's a pain to manage. Right now it's about half an inch long. My eyes are also very dark brown, almost black. My skin is tanned.

I'm not the tallest guy, but I'm one of the strongest. Daily training, with practice outside of it to supplement the exercise, has given me a very muscular build.

My parents coo over me when I walk back into the dining room, well, as much as people as aggressive as them can coo. They even take a few pictures of me. It's a bit ridiculous, but I still have some time to kill before I need to get to the reaping. I don't have any people I'm particularly close to, so it's not like I need to go meet them or something.

Unless you count Shamia, which I don't, really.

I manage to get out of walking to the reaping with my parents. I think I'm generally a pretty patient guy, but I want some time alone, to think, before the reaping. I don't want to hear about how great it is that I'm volunteering. I'm the one who made the decision, after all.

There's a fair number of kids in line, as well as already in their respective age groups, when I get to the town square. Thankfully, the line moves fast and soon enough I'm amongst the other seventeen year olds. I shove my way to the front, idly wondering where Shamia is right now.

Most of the Victors are already present. Arguably the most famous Victor to come from our District was Johanna Mason, a prominent rebel from the second rebellion. However, we were spared the punishment that District Four received, because of our loyalty to the Capitol in the days following the failure of the second rebellion and District Thirteen's fall.

I know this is still a sore point with other Districts, despite the fact that it happened almost 250 years ago. I guess it's easy to blame us, instead of the Capitol, for their Districts' hardship. Well, they could be as prosperous as us if they showed the same loyalty.

Then again, does such a corrupt and decadent capital really deserve that loyalty?

... I don't know the answer to that. I don't need to know, though; I just need to win the Hunger Games. Then I'll have all the time I could want to consider such deeply philosophical questions.

"Happy 324th Hunger Games, District Seven!" our escort screeches into the microphone, causing everyone to cringe as the speakers squeal. Ugh, high-pitched Capitol accents... Why must they be so obnoxious?

It seems I zoned out and didn't notice that the reaping already started. Oops. Well, I'm paying attention now. I clap along with most of the people in the crowd, my gaze focused intently upon the escort: a short woman of unknown age (I think she's older, but she looks rather young – plastic surgery, you know) named Bijou Clave.

"I'll pick the lucky lady first, how does that sound to everybody?" she simpers, tottering over to the first reaping bowl. It seems like she's trying to make up for her lack in height with ridiculously high heels. Seriously, how can she even balance?

"And this year's female tribute is... Macey Alder!"

"I volunteer!" I shout, along with several other people in the crowd. After a beat or two of silence, where Bijou makes no attempt to pick out who volunteered, there's a mad dash to the stage. I manage to shove my way to the front (I 'accidentally' knock a girl down the stairs) and stagger up to the stage.

"You! And what's your name, dear?" Bijou asks chirpily, giving me a big smile.

"Wolfram Fischer," I say, giving her a serious nod.

"Wolfram Fischer, everyone!" Bijou calls into the microphone. "Now, onto the boys... Our lucky boy this year is Hanson Locke!"

"I volunteer!" comes a shout from the fifteen year old section, before Bijou even finishes reading the kid's last name.

A girl runs up to the stage, much to the annoyance of the other would-be volunteers. She looks familiar; I think she lives in my neighbourhood.

"Oh, and who are you?" Bijou asks, still cheerful.

"Mellie Robinson," the girl says loudly. She looks a bit stressed, though. Was she planning to volunteer, or was it a spur of the moment decision?

"Well, then. This is Mellie Robinson! Along with Wolfram Fischer, they'll be your tributes this year, District Seven!" Bijou announces. "Shake hands, dears."

I take Mellie's in a firm grip, which she coolly returns. Her hand is callused, but in a District like Seven this isn't necessarily a sign of training. Still, she looks tough enough, if a little young. I'd say the average age of volunteers is somewhere between seventeen and eighteen.

Well, it's her choice. I'm not about to question it. I do wonder what spurred her to it, though, as we're escorted to the Justice Building. I didn't even see the boy, so I can't say whether he and Mellie look alike or not. Their last names certainly aren't similar.

I'm a bit surprised when my first visitor is Shamia, considering I didn't see her at all during the reaping itself.

"Wolf!" Shamia cries, immediately latching her arms around my neck. We kiss a bit, which, ok, is nice. But then she pulls away and starts going on about how worried she is about me, and how she wishes that I hadn't volunteered and-

Honestly, I just tune her out, nodding vaguely at what I deem to be appropriate intervals. You'd think this was a whimsical thing that I'd decided moments before putting into action, me volunteering. Never mind that I'd mentioned it to her right after I'd told my parents of my decision.

"-and you probably just volunteered because your parents pushed you to do it. I know how hard they push you, Wolf!" she adds, the accusatory yet earnest words cutting through my distraction.

My parents didn't push me into it, either. Before I mentioned my intention to volunteer a few weeks ago, my parents never brought it up, beyond periodic comments about 'when I do get around to volunteering'.

"That's not true," I interrupt, before she can continue her tirade. "The decision was mine alone. Sure, my parents push me, but they can't force me to volunteer or anything. They never even mentioned that I should volunteer this year, I'm the one who brought it," I explain, not trying to keep the annoyance from my voice. She isn't trained, and she doesn't understand why those of us who are would want to participate in the Hunger Games. I've tried explaining my own reasoning, but she doesn't understand that, either.

All right, fine. It's not like I'm asking her to volunteer herself. I just want her to respect and accept my decision.

Shamia looks at me, hurt and (as before) unable to understand why I'd volunteer.

"Look, Shamia," I say, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. "I don't think we should... be together, anymore." Snow, this is so awkward now that I'm actually saying what I've been thinking for a while aloud.

"What...?" she questions blankly, uncomprehending.

I exhale heavily, not quite a sigh. "You're worried about me not coming back from the Hunger Games – I understand that."

"Then why would you volunteer!" Shamia demands, and to my inner panic, I notice that her eyes are getting teary.

Give me marauding mutt or another tribute to fight any day; I'd gladly deal with that over a crying girl.

Just great. I hold up my hands, like that can stop her from crying. "It's something I have to do- I know I can always take over the lumberyard when my father retires," I add, when it looks like she's about to interrupt again. "But I don't want that to be my only option. Since all I'm doing is upsetting you... I think we should break up. It's not fair to me to expect you to put up with decisions you don't agree with, and if I do die... Well, there's no obligation on your part," I say.

"I-" Shamia breaks off with a sniffle. "But if you come back... would you still want to be with me?"

Oh. She's more manipulative than I've given her credit for – covering all her bases, as it were.

I shrug. "I don't know- you've seen and heard about other Victors... Winning the Hunger Games changes you," I hedge. This comment is completely true – I've never seen someone who comes out of the Games alive and the same person they used to be.

My trainer has us watch recordings of previous Hunger Games, which are obviously much shorter than watching the Games themselves. During the Games, you don't really notice the changes in the eventual Victors, but watching the condensed version, which focuses mainly on the Victor, the change in personality and behaviour is obvious.

"But Wolf-" Shamia starts to protest, but luckily a Peacekeeper shows up to tell her that her time is up. I've never been gladder to see a Peacekeeper than I am right now. She gives me a hug and tries to kiss me, but I turn my head and she kisses my cheek instead.

"Bye, Shamia," I say, extricating myself from her arms.

"Wolf! Promise me you'll-"

Whatever she's going to say is cut off as the Peacekeeper briskly hustles her out. He looks a little annoyed, to be honest.

It must be hard work, regulating the time allotted to the friends and family members of a child who is most likely being sent to their death.

My parents enter the room a few seconds later. The conversation picks up where it left off before the reaping, about how great it is that I volunteered and how I'm going to do great and how proud they are of me...

I'm glad they're supportive, but it does get to be a little tiring after a while. I'm almost glad to see them go, led out by the same Peacekeeper who hauled Shamia away.

At the end of the goodbye hour, I'm led away as well. To the train station, and from there... to the Capitol. And the Hunger Games.

Murdoch is gruff and disinterested – but from what I saw in the arena, I don't think he would just abandon me in the arena. He seems like the type to take responsibility and obligation seriously (others might have killed the cowering fourteen year old Whyte; Murdoch bullied the other Careers into accepting her into their alliance) so I just assume this is how he acts to everyone.

Anya is more engaging, lightly flirting with both Murdoch (who is gruff as ever) and myself (which is embarrassing; I mean, she's my idol and it's so awkward) but she spends most of her time speaking with Mellie.

Mellie seems reserved; she doesn't say much at all, but I'm mostly the same. It's too early to make assumptions.

Bijou keeps the conversation afloat, and without the microphone to amplify her voice, I can almost ignore the accent and pretend she's a normal person. Albeit one who enjoys watching innocent (for the most part) children get sacrificed for her entertainment.

The food is delicious (not that there was ever any doubt of that) and we watch the reaping recap on the train. No one stands out immediately to me, but like I said, it's too early to make assumptions.

The train pulls into the Capitol station well into the night, but there are still some Capitol citizens and reporters waiting to greet us. I've decided on my angle, and it's not friendly or likeable. More than any other male tribute this year, I'd say that I'm the one best suited to play the 'determined Career' angle –Trance seems too girly, and Homo is too young – so I'll go with that.

I fall asleep pretty quickly; unfortunately, I was thinking of what my chariot costume will be, so the result is that I dream of Anya and Murdoch dressed up as gaudy trees.

* * *

><p>AN: Apologies if the ending/last quarter of this chapter sucked. I'm seriously tired and wanted to post something tonight (this morning?).

I may think of a better title for Wolf later, when I'm not so dead. ... Possibly. Doubtfully.

EDIT: Aw man, just realized I used 'determined' to describe Emi. I'm running out of adjectives, here. Lame. :1 So, I did change it. What now?

I don't know about you, but I really like Wolf's name. Wolf. Wolfram. Fischer.

I'm so tired, I'll stop rambling and leave you now.

Oh, I lied. I love reading your feedback, dear readers ~~ ;)


	16. Driven Volunteer: Mellie Robinson

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOURTEEN<br>**

__the driven volunteer  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Mellie Robinson, female tribute of District Seven<em>

My deepest, most secret fear is that my cousin Hanson will get reaped for the annual Hunger Games.

It isn't exactly a logical fear – this year, Hanson only has two entries among thousands. That isn't high odds by any stretch of the imagination. Also, we live in District Seven, one of Panem's Career Districts. Almost every year, Seven's two tributes are volunteers; the odd year, there may only be one volunteer, but that hasn't happened recently.

And yet, the fear remains.

I stand in the crowd of fifteen year olds with my best friend, Jelline, waiting for our escort, Bijou Clave, to reap the male tribute. A stout, tanned boy who looks faintly familiar already volunteered for the female tribute, barely. There was a bit of a scuffle at the foot of the steps, but the boy (he introduced himself as Wolfram Fischer) managed to get to the stage first and Bijou accepted him.

Bijou plucks a name out of the reaping bowl. "Now, onto the boys... Our lucky boy this year is Hanson-"

My heart stops. Hanson. That's not a common name by any means, and before I realize what I'm doing I shout, "I volunteer!" before Bijou can finish calling his name.

All I can think is that I don't want Hanson to have anything to do with the Hunger Games. I don't even want him to walk up onto that stage.

Any notion of other people volunteering for him (which, in retrospect, they probably would have, considering how many kids were vying for the first volunteer position) has disappeared from my mind.

I run up to the stage, ignoring the furious glares the other would-be volunteers send my way. It's too late to take back my words now.

"Oh, and who are you?" Bijou inquires cheerfully.

"Mellie Robinson," I say, the words coming out more loudly than I intended.

"Well, then. This is Mellie Robinson! Along with Wolfram Fischer, they'll be your tributes this year, District Seven!" Bijou calls into the microphone. "Shake hands, dears," she adds to me and Wolfram.

Peacekeepers escort us into the Justice Building, where the goodbyes will take place. I'm left alone in a nicely furnished room to my thoughts, which largely boil down to: how did it come to this?

I mean, my day started out normally enough; a bit of training, a lavish meal in the spirit of celebration of the reaping, and then attending the reaping itself. None of us were really worried about the reaping, and in the light of day I could dismiss my fears about Hanson getting reaped – like I've said, this is a Career District.

But then, for as long as I've been aware of it, I've always been fiercely protective of my younger cousin. Some people might say I take it too far, that I'm overprotective of him, but I've seen how people treat those that they deem to be inferior. And I won't stand for it, not a bit. Hanson isn't a person I'd let others push around or make fun of just because he seems different from them. Just because he's autistic doesn't mean his existence has any less merit than anybody else.

My dream is to have a world where Hanson can venture outside without being mocked or abused, just because he doesn't act 'normally'.

Well, even though I never really planned on volunteering (unless it was for Hanson's sake), winning the Hunger Games would certainly give me the resources necessary to start making that world...

The door opens, and I tense instinctively. But it's just Jelline. I guess my family will be next – it will probably take them longer to find each other in the crowd and come see me together.

"Nice one, Mellie," Jelline says. "I didn't know you were planning on volunteering."

I shoot her an annoyed look, because she knows very well that this wasn't at all planned.

But then, no one plans for their dear cousin be reaped for the Hunger Games.

"Ha, ha," I retort sarcastically, not gracing her words with a more serious reply.

Jelline grins. "Well, it's not like you're completely hopeless at training," she adds. Kendall (my older cousin and Hanson's older sister), Jelline and I are all trained by the same Victor, so we know each other's strengths and weaknesses very well. We're also the sort of best friends who insult each other a lot without really meaning it.

"Better than you, anyway," I reply, smirking back.

"You wish." Jelline slumps into one of the couches, making a show of making herself comfortable. "So, what did you think of that other guy – Wolf Whatever?"

I shrug. "He looks strong." Not that that's saying much, considering the primary occupation of District Seven's inhabitants.

Jelline rolls her eyes. "Obviously. But he's not the best looking, either."

I raise an eyebrow. "And...?" Seriously, you don't go into the arena looking for love or romance or anything like that.

"Just saying. You're pretty, though. Don't forget to play that up," she tells me.

I guess I am pretty – plenty of people tell me so, which means it must be true, right? I don't know if I agree, though. To me, I just look... like myself. My colouring is a bit rare for Seven, but not exceptional, either. I have reddish-blonde hair (more red than blonde; my mother's a brunette though, so I have no idea where I get it from – my father, whoever he is, maybe?) and bright green eyes, two features that are not exactly common in the District. I'm slightly paler than most of Seven's inhabitants as well.

I'm also not the most intimidating person you'll come across, either. I'm just under five foot six, and slender – though I do have fairly defined muscles. But let's face it, I'll never be as muscle-bound as my District partner.

"You don't have to tell me that," I say, rolling my eyes.

"No, I think I do. You're obviously not thinking straight," Jelline states, all traces of teasing gone.

I stiffen. "Don't start," I snap. "I'll admit... It wasn't my plan to volunteer this year-"

"-or any year," Jelline interjects. It's true; I was only in training on the off chance that I got reaped and no one stepped forward to volunteer for me. Volunteering was never even a consideration.

"-but it's not like I don't have a good chance," I finish, ignoring her interruption. Most of the volunteers (including myself) from Seven specialize in axes – it's still blatantly obvious that we're trained, but ostensibly our skill could come from working in the District's industry. The Capitol still has that law about no prior training, after all.

Jelline exhales heavily, not quite a sigh. "True. And there's no question about your determination to win," she adds, seeming to have accepted that I'm really going through with it; never mind that you can't back out once you volunteer. At least she's not going to scold me anymore. "You've said it yourself, and I've seen it in training... you've got a strong drive."

I nod. "I'm going to come back," I agree simply. I don't need to say why; we both know that the single most important person in my life is Hanson. More than Jelline, or Kendall, or my mother – it's Hanson.

That's not to say they're not important, or that Hanson's immediate family doesn't take care of him – because they do – but I just feel a strong bond towards him. Everyone in the family (and Jelline) is fond of him. If only other people could see that Hanson in the same light.

Jelline nods. "Don't be stupid, though," she says.

I raise my eyebrows at her, sneering. "What's that supposed to mean?"

My friend rolls her eyes. "I know you. You're rude and bitchy-"

"-oh, like you're not-"

"-but you can't go pissing off the other Careers," she finishes, smirking.

"That's just common sense," I scoff.

"Like it's common sense that all those older kids were just waiting for the chance to volunteer," she points out, and there's not much I can say to that.

"Whatever," I mutter, not wanting her to get the last word. It still feels like she did, though. "Don't go out with what's-his-face while I'm gone. You know who I'm talking about," I add sharply, when she opens her mouth to protest. "He's a jerk." I always forget his name out of principle.

Jelline rolls her eyes. "Yes, _mother_," she hisses.

I smirk. "Good. I better not come back to some sappy love scene."

"Same to you," Jelline retorts. "If you stupidly fall for some boy in the arena I'll..."

"Right," I sneer. "That's not going to happen."

We bicker for a few more minutes, before the Peacekeepers escort Jelline out.

My family visits me next.

Hanson's face is crumpled in confusion, but he doesn't say anything as he sits quietly on one of the couches. Kendall looks a bit annoyed at me, but refrains from scolding me or something after she glances at Hanson. Anything like that would just upset him more, and neither of us want that to happen.

My mother looks sorrowful and immediately hugs me. I return the embrace stiffly. She doesn't ask me what I was thinking either. All she says is, "I have faith in you, Mellie."

Well, it's nice to know she supports my choice to volunteer, out of the blue and all like it is. Sometimes I feel like missing a father from my life is a problem, but I wouldn't give my mother up either. She's done a good enough job of raising me, and my uncle is sort of like a father figure.

I have my mother's name, Robinson; my aunt's maiden name is Robinson, of course. Locke is my uncle's surname, which is why Kendall and Hanson's last name is different than mine.

"Thanks, mom," I mutter, embarrassed but pleased.

"But why do you have to go, Mellie?" Hanson asks pleadingly, and I don't know how to explain to him without upsetting him.

"Because she volunteered," Kendall says.

"Why?" Hanson repeats. "Why did she volunteer?"

Kendall casts a slightly frustrated glance at me. She's not the best at dealing with Hanson, for all that he's her little brother. I'm the best with him, and I hate lying to him.

I make an exception today, though. "You know that Kendall and I attend training," I begin, and he nods. "Well, the point of training is to volunteer - so that's why I volunteered."

"Kendall is older," Hanson points out.

"Kendall was too slow this year," I explain, smirking slightly. Kendall sends me an annoyed look this time.

"Kendall will be too slow every year," Joah, my uncle, puts in meaningfully.

My cousin shrugs, but doesn't say anything either way.

"We're grateful that you volunteered, Mellie," Tamina, my aunt, assures me. Yet I think I can hear an unspoken _even if it wasn't necessary_.

I smile at her. It feels fake, though - I'm not great at faking these things, unfortunately.

"Yeah, and when I come back we can live in the Victor's Village," I say carelessly.

"Sounds nice," Hanson remarks, seeming to have cheered up slightly. "I like the houses in the Victor's Village."

"It will be," I agree. I'm determined that Hanson will get to live in one, now that he's said that.

The five of us make some slightly stilted small talk for the rest of the time, and then the Peacekeeper tells us that our time is up.

I grab Kendall's arm before she can exit. "Don't let Hanson watch," I whisper.

"You said you'd come back, didn't you?" Kendall hisses back, raising an eyebrow.

"That doesn't mean I want him to see me... like that," I insist.

"Time's up," the Peacekeeper says coldly. I release Kendall's arm only when she nods in acceptance of my words, and she hurries out.

Before I know it, I'm hustled onto the train that will take me to the Capitol.

My mentor is Anya Ash, the tribute who won the 317th Hunger Games. Wolf - that's what he insists we all call him - gets the most recent Victor, Murdoch Clemens, as his mentor.

Anya is pretty friendly, flirting with both Murdoch (who ignores her, mostly) and Wolf (who seems embarrassed - does he have a crush on her or something?). However, she doesn't ignore me either, and manages to draw the story about Hanson and my reasons for volunteering out of me.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "That's got to be hard."

I nod, a bit unnerved by how... likable she is. I don't have vivid memories of her Games, but I know that she didn't act like this during them. She acted like any decent Career would - ruthlessly determined to win.

Is this what it means to win? Act friendly to the kid that, let's face it, is probably not going to come back despite your best efforts? I don't know if I'd be able to pull that off. I'm not friendly in the least - the only person that I'm really nice to is Hanson.

I distract myself from thoughts of Hanson and the other people that I've left behind in District Seven by focusing on the delicious food the Avox servants keep bringing out. Each course seems better than the last. I've never had food like this before, and my family is definitely upper-class.

I doubt anyone in District Seven, other than the Victors and the tributes that take this train every year, has tasted food like this. I don't even put as much honey on the food as I usually do back home. Even so, the relatively small amount causes most of the others to give me strange looks, though no one expressly comments on the tendency. I don't care either way: if I like honey on my food, that's my business, isn't it?

We watch the reapings on the train, with Anya commenting, "Oh, that boy's cute," or "_He's_ handsome," at practically every male that gets reaped or volunteers. And then she casts these sly glances at me.

"Not interested," I insist, knowing that she is poking fun at me, but unable to stop myself from rising to the bait every time. It helps that her comments on the boys' attractiveness is usually a great exaggeration.

"Well, we'll be pulling into the station soon," Anya remarks. We've returned to the dining car, where the adults drink really strong coffee. I tried a sip, but it's really bitter and gross. "Before I forget, I want to tell you... Even if you don't like your costume, or your stylist, try not to be too obvious about it. They're on your side, even if they don't seem like it."

The advice is directed at both Wolf and me. I nod, as does my partner.

This seems to satisfy her. "Now, it's getting late, children, so you'd better go straight to bed as soon as we get to the Training Centre." This, she addresses to Murdoch as well. He ignores her, as usual. She pretends not to notice, and adds, "You need your beauty sleep for the chariot rides tomorrow!"

All the beauty in the world isn't enough to get recognition if you're dressed as a tree. Nine times out of ten, Seven's tributes get dressed as trees.

Maybe I'll be one of the lucky ones - I can hope, anyway.

I don't think that I'll be able to sleep, and every time I close my eyes the bright afterimage of the photographers' camera flash blinds me. They were waiting to ambush us in the train station and also in front of the Training Centre. Reporters were also present, shouting questions at us including, randomly, one about the height of this year's volunteers.

Seriously, don't they have anything better to do than analyze tributes' heights, of all things?

Despite my irritated state, I somehow do fall asleep (with a pillow over my head, of course; I can't sleep without something covering my head), and if I have any dreams, I don't remember them when I wake up.

* * *

><p>AN: Ok, I'm a bit iffy about Hanson's characterization. Truthfully, I've never interacted with someone who is autistic, and the wikipedia article that I skimmed wasn't all that helpful either. Sorry. D:

And, my computer got a virus. I was able to salvage most of the stuff I had on it concerning this story, but yeah. That's partly why this chapter is so late. :/

Also, half of the remaining tributes are bloodbath tributes. I'm really losing steam with writing these reapings, so... I'm contemplating skipping those tributes' perspectives altogether. If I did write something, it would just be half-hearted and not particularly interesting... (Well there is one tribute's perspective that I would find interesting to write, but eh. If I decide not to write the other bloodbath tributes' chapter, I won't write hers either.)

Any thoughts?


	17. Victor's Daughter: Ridley Weste

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FIFTEEN<br>**

__the Victor's daughter __

__(& the spoiled klutz)  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Ridley Weste, female tribute of District Eight<em>

I've heard some people describe me as a 'porcelain doll' - I guess in a sense that is true, courtesy of my pale skin, delicate build (I'm five foot one, and weigh ninety pounds soaking wet) and large, innocent-looking green eyes. My puppy eyes are legendary and have enabled me to get away with more pranks than...

Well, if I don't tell you about them, you can't tell on me, so I'll keep it to myself.

My auburn hair always falls into ringlets, although if it was my choice I'd gladly hack them off. My mother insists, though - she likes when they're long, and I can't exactly refuse her. She doesn't ask me for much, and I know that my troublemaking tries her patience.

So the curls stay.

Actually, my mother's fame grants me a lot of freedom that other kids in District Eight don't get to experience.

I mean, if any other kid wrote an essay about the Hunger Games and the Capitol that claimed, among other things, that the reason the title of 'Victor' is capitalized versus the lowercase 'tribute' (victory is all that matters, whereas the tributes are inconsequential and forgettable), well... They probably would've gotten whipped.

It's not nice, whipping; I've never been whipped before, but I've seen it happen a couple of times and, like I said, not pleasant. But I got away with just a verbal reprimand from the principal.

So who is my mom, anyway? Her name is Clariss Weste, and she's one of District Eight's Victors - she won the 303rd Hunger Games, actually.

And before it gets asked, no, I don't know who my father is, and I'm perfectly fine with that. I don't feel any absence in my life, and even though most families in Eight need two incomes to stay afloat, my mom's victory money isn't going to run out any time soon.

Maybe it's wrong for me to take that security for granted, but it's not my fault that I don't get as worried as my friends do on reaping day. They take out a couple of tesserae each year, whereas I don't have to take out any.

Wesley and Jake are both my age, sixteen; and Crow is seventeen. I think they have around twenty entries apiece. I only have five. Do they resent me..? I don't think so. I always try to lighten the mood on reaping day, and I think they appreciate the effort. We're basically a bunch of troublemakers so the sombre mood that hangs over our quartet is really uncharacteristic.

"Anyway, let's get started, District Eight!" Mastiff Bull says, after he fails to rouse the crowd with his cries of 'Happy Hunger Games!' - I almost feel sorry for him, because this is his first year. The previous escort resigned, something about the stress of having to deal with a District that never produces Victors. Too bad mentors can't do the same - whenever my mom has the duty (every second year) she comes back a wreck.

The new guy is in his twenties, and is wearing some seriously crazy clothes. I've seen some escorts on television try to get in the mood of their District, so maybe this outfit is supposed to have something to do with the fact that Eight produces the Capitol's textiles...?

Mastiff clears his throat, looking a little lost for a second, before striding purposely over to the first reaping bowl. "Ladies first, right?" he mutters, but the microphone is pinned to his impressive collar so everyone hears it anyway. He flushes in embarrassment, but valiantly strives onward. He plucks the first name, the one that's sitting on the very top of the pile.

"Ah, and here we have... Ridley Weste!" Mastiff announces.

Silence greets his words - but not a rebellious one like when he tried to pretend the Hunger Games is a happy occasion that should be celebrated. It's more of a stunned silence. I don't think he realizes the difference, though, because he's starting to look really upset.

No one ever expects a Victor's child to be reaped, even though it happens far more often than it should. I still didn't think - I never considered that _I_ would...

"Ridley Weste?" Mastiff repeats, his voice rising.

"Go, Ridley," Jake whispers, giving me a gentle push.

I glance back at him, noting that both him and Wesley look shocked and horrified. I turn away and plaster an innocent grin to my face. I'm not under any illusions that someone is going to step forward and volunteer for me, so I'm going to have to start playing the Games now.

"Are you Ridley Weste?" Mastiff demands when I reach him on the stage.

I nod. "Yep. I can understand why you're confused, though - I don't really look much like my mom, do I?" I add, gesturing at my mother. We have the same pale skin and green eyes, but she's really tall and has brown hair to my auburn. "Sorry for keeping you waiting, Mr. Bull," I add quickly. "I just- I was surprised to hear my name, you know?"

"It's an honour to be reaped for the Hunger Games," Mastiff tells me stiffly.

"Oh, of course it is!" I agree earnestly, widening my eyes almost comically. "I'm really looking forward to entering the Games! My mom's always telling me stories about them and all I can think is 'wow, I wish I could do that!' - but now I'm getting the chance to," I explain, lying outrageously. I may be laying the sarcasm on too thickly, but Mastiff seems appeased.

"So, no need to ask for volunteers. I am _stoked_," I add, grinning at the cameras.

"That's enough, Ridley," my mother's voice cuts across my words. Her tone is one of warning, and her eyes tell me the same when I glance at her. "Let Mastiff finish the reaping, now."

"Right, sorry! I'm just... Well, you know." I zip an invisible zipper over my mouth and pretend to toss the keys away. Mastiff nods, appearing amused by my antics. Whew.

He walks over to the male reaping bowl, and although I do the same every year, I just chant _not Jake or Wesley or Crow, please_ in my head. This year, more than ever, it would be awful to have them reaped - we'd go into the arena together, and...

I don't even want to think about it.

Mastiff plunges his hand into the collected names and pulls a slip out.

_Don't be Jake; don't say Wesley - I _know_ that name isn't Crow's_... I think hard, as if by force of thought I can keep them out of the Games.

"Brad Silk," Mastiff reads. The tribute makes it to the stage a lot more quickly than I did, although he is not doing a great job with keeping it together. Despite being only thirteen, he's almost half a foot taller than me, but he's all gangly and a bit awkward, as if he hasn't settled into his new height yet.

Clumsy, uncoordinated tributes don't last long.

Weak applause filters through the square when Brad and I shake hands. He grins at me and tries to crush my hand in his grip. I grin back, tightening my grip to match his.

_Asshole_.

I'm glad now that my mother insisted on teaching me the basics of survival and self-defence. I'm handy with a knife - teaching me anything bigger would be asking for punishment, I think; if I walked into the arena with extensive knowledge on how to wield a sword or something, it'd be suspicious. I know the basics of setting snares (although I've never had the opportunity to do a 'live' practice; there's no wildlife within the District, and leaving the boundaries is something that even a Victor and her family can't get away with) and fires. I know a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat.

Could I take on a trained Career? Doubtful. I wouldn't want to risk it, and they travel in packs anyway. I could maybe, _maybe_ handle one, if I got lucky and had the element of surprise.

More than anything, that's what gives the Careers an edge - they're stronger and better prepared for the rigours of the Games, of course, but they also have the advantage of numbers. Normal tributes either work in the pairs they're partnered into at the beginning of the Games, or form small alliances before/during the Games themselves. But I don't think I've ever seen more than four untrained tributes work together at a time.

The Career pack is usually around eight strong, made up primarily of the volunteers from One, Two, Five and Seven, but sometimes including volunteers from Thirteen and/or strong tributes from other Districts. It's easy to pick off the loners, or even take on the smaller alliances of other tributes.

One thing that I know I'll have to do is find an ally. I don't think I'll be able to stand being alone in the Hunger Games. Hopefully my partner will be someone I can stand...

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sure my mom will have some useful advice for me, and I should focus on my last hour in Eight rather than worry about the Capitol and the arena to come. I'll have time for worrying soon enough.

My three best friends are my first, and only, visitors. Since she's a mentor this year, my mother won't be able to come visit me. But unlike most tributes I'll have the comfort of family pretty much every step of the way.

_Even if that family is the reason you were reaped?_ a vicious part of my mind questions. I push that thought away by telling myself that every year people who don't take any tesserae get reaped.

The atmosphere between my friends and I is even more stifling than it usually is on this day. I think we're all at a loss about what to say in this situation. I thought of a few jokes when, in a more morbid mood, I considered that one of them might get reaped, but I never considered that I would be the person leaving for the arena.

"... Well, what are the odds, right?" I manage to say, my smile feeling a lot weaker than it did up on the stage. The people I was acting for didn't really know me so it was easier to hold a fake expression. Seeing how depressed and upset my friends are, I can't help but feel the same.

"Yeah, five in who knows how many," Wesley mutters in agreement. "Those odds aren't very reliable, huh?"

"And what about that new escort?" Crow puts in. "He was seriously sketchy."

"Did you see his face when you didn't go up right away? I thought he was going to throw a fit," Jake adds, grinning.

When he puts it like that, it almost makes it seem like I did it on purpose, rather than being frozen in shock and denial. I grin back. "Yeah, he needs to lighten up," I agree. "I bet he'll be escorting Eight for a while." Then I wince at what I just implied; promotions usually only occur when a tribute does really well, or emerges a Victor.

"The old guy's gonna be upset he resigned this year when you come back," Crow remarks without missing a beat. He sounds so confident too.

"I mean, you're not pathetic like that other kid. Silk whatever," says Wesley. "He looks totally awkward. I wouldn't bet on him if you paid me to. You can play up your innocent act, those Capitol people love that stuff."

"And didn't you say your mom-" Jake starts to add, but Wesley elbows him and looks pointedly at the door. There's a Peacekeeper just outside, and he could very well be listening in to our conversation. Training is illegal, even the basics that my mother imparted me with. "-is always telling you about the Games?" he finishes instead.

"That's right," I agree. "I can get a decent training score, pull some sponsors..."

"Exactly!" Crow and Wesley chorus. They glance at each other in surprise, and the four of us burst out laughing.

"I hope whoever I get as an partner in the arena will be a good ally," I remark more seriously when the laughter dies down.

"I'm sure you will," Crow says encouragingly, though there's really no guarantee of that. I could be paired with someone like Brad, or worse, a Career... I don't think I'm the type that some vicious yet benevolent trained killer is going to take pity on, doll-like features or not.

"Even if you don't, you can always ally with other people. It's not like there's a rule against making alliances before or during the Games," Wesley points out. "Kids in alliances usually last longer, too."

I think the most obvious example of this is the Careers, but I don't add that little tidbit. "Yep, will do. And just think, we can have some wild parties in the Victor's Village when I come back," I say, grinning.

"Yeah, your mom never lets us party after-"

"Just because I broke that window that one time..." Jake sighs.

It's true, my mom doesn't really like them, especially after Jake broke the front window. "Though it will be a little lame living next to my mom," I muse.

"You might get the house across the street, or three to the left," Wesley jokes, and we all snicker again.

All too soon, the Peacekeeper is curtly telling us that our time together is up.

"I'll work overtime so I can sponsor you!" Crow promises, and even though I managed to forget that I'm most likely going to die, this brings it all back to me.

I blink back tears at Crow's words. He has to take out tesserae to support his younger siblings, as well as working seemingly endless shifts in the textile factories. He can't afford to sponsor me, ill thought out promises aside.

"My mom will sponsor me, you don't have to worry about that," I tell him, smiling weakly.

Wesley and Jake are dawdling in the doorway, stalling for time.

"No, I will," Crow insists, with my two other friends nodding in agreement.

"Don't," I order harshly, glad that my voice doesn't catch on the syllable. I take a deep breath and quickly add, "Besides, I'm getting sponsors in the Capitol, remember? They have money to spare, there."

Before the three boys can respond, the Peacekeeper shoves Wesley and Jake out the door. "Time's up," he snaps, grabbing Crow's arm.

"Bye! And don't watch if- if-" I can't bring myself to say it, but Crow lets the Peacekeeper haul him out without a fuss and the door slams shut before I can finish my sentence.

_Don't watch if I die_.

The last word echoes around in my head; the room seems unnaturally quiet after Jake, Crow and Wesley leave. I try not to dwell on it by pacing around, but it's not easy.

If I can't stand being alone in a relatively harmless room like this, how am I going to stand it in the arena?

_You'll get a good ally,_ I tell myself firmly, angrily dashing unshed tears from my eyes.

Finally, I'm allowed to leave, although that means I'm left alone in a car with my District partner.

"Are you scared?" he asks obnoxiously. "You look like you were crying."

I curse my pale complexion for a moment - even though I didn't actually cry, my face gets all blotchy. "I'm not scared," I retort.

Brad scoffs, disbelieving. I want to punch him, but fighting amongst tributes before the Games is forbidden. I bet he'd tell on me without a second thought if I did so much as hit him.

"So, you're like, sixteen right?" he continues. "I'm almost fourteen."

I stare at him without answering. Where is he going with this, exactly?

"Romances are always popular," he adds.

I can't stop myself from sneering. "Yeah, when they involve attractive kids. Too bad you don't fall into that category." My voice is thick with sarcasm.

"Look, just give me a chance," he insists. "Kids with allies always last longer."

"Kids like you never survive the bloodbath," I snap back. It's not a nice thing to say, but the stress of the day is getting to me. I'm in no mood to hold his hand throughout the process.

"I'll show you," he mutters angrily, crossing his arms over his chest like a little kid. I roll my eyes and look out the window, hoping we'll reach the train station soon.

I'm not exactly new to the rabid Capitol photographers - my mother's not the most famous Victor there is, but she's the most famous one in Eight; she's always being interviewed about any given year's tributes even if she isn't a mentor that year.

I give the cameras a brave smile, offering them a few waves but not any answers to the questions that the reporters shout at me. Brad lags behind, enthusiastically telling one reporter (who looks like he's regretting asking my partner anything) about how he's a strong competitor.

My mother is hovering in the doorway, along with the other mentor this year - a sixty year old man named Patterson Stitch. I stop myself from running to her, barely. I'm not a little girl, but... come to think of it, it'd be nice to be out of the reaping like I was when I was little.

At least I got to live sixteen years already.

I climb up into the train and my mom takes me to the dining car without waiting for Brad to come as well. Patterson's like a grandfather or an uncle to me, and I almost feel sorry for what he's going to have to deal with. I can't quite manage it, though; one more weak tribute means better odds for myself, after all.

My mother hugs me as soon as we enter the dining room, and then we sit next to each other as the Avox begin serving us. Mastiff is already there, munching on candy. I hope his teeth rot out.

We discuss what stations I should visit in training, and how I should present myself in front of the cameras, fun stuff like that. Brad and Patterson alive, and the train finally starts to move, but we Weste women don't try to include Brad in the conversation no matter how many obnoxious attempts to enter it he makes.

"Keep smiling for the cameras, Ridley," my mother whispers as we pull into the station at the Capitol.

I smile at her, a real smile, then step out to face more reporters and interested Capitol citizens. Mastiff hustles us through, blocking Brad's attempts to answer more questions by insisting that we're going to miss the reaping recap if we dawdle around.

Although the recaps don't tell you everything about a tribute, they're still important because it shows how the competition holds up under pressure.

To my disappointment, the Careers all seem formidable this year, even if none of them seem really outstanding. Well, maybe the tiny boy from District Five won't be much of a competitor, but all the others...

"Get some sleep," my mother advises. "We can talk more tomorrow, before the chariot ride."

Brad protests, of course, but it's not like she was talking to him anyway.

"Good night mom, Patterson," I say, pointedly ignoring Brad, before walking back to my room. I do get some sleep, but after waking up from a creepy dream where I got cornered by the Careers and died a pretty horrible death, I don't feel that rested. Only four hours to go before I actually have to get up...

* * *

><p><em>Brad Silk, male tribute of District Eight<em>

The girl this year is cute. She's short and delicate looking, and if I hadn't seen her walk out from the sixteen year old section, I would have thought she was closer to my own age of thirteen.

Although, she seems pretty eager to enter the Hunger Games. That's kind of weird.

Well, girls are weird.

Mastiff finally walks over to the reaping that holds two slips with _my_ name on it.

"No way it's going to be one of us," I tell my friends confidently. And if it is one of us, it won't be me. Wyatt, Jaxson and Porter all took out tesserae this year, but not me. I'm safe-

"Brad Silk," Mastiff reads.

H-huh? That's- but that's my _name_! How did that even- Why- I had TWO SLIPS!

"Go on, Brad," Jaxson sneers, giving me a hard shove.

I stagger forward, then force myself to walk up to the stage. I only almost-trip once. How did I get here? I look around the stage, from the impassive mentors and mayor, to Mastiff who's wrapping things up, to my District partner.

Well, she's cute. Maybe she'd be interested in starting a romance? The Capitol loves that sort of thing.

To impress her, I squeeze her hand really hard when we shake. She smiles innocently back up at me, and practically crushes my hand. I hope she doesn't notice me flexing my fingers painfully as we walk off the stage...

Jackasses that they are, my friends don't even show up to say goodbye to me. Well, see if I let them come over to my awesome house in Victor's Village when I get back! Seriously.

My parents are very tearful, and when I confidently tell my mom not to worry because I'm going to be coming back, she just cries harder.

All girls are weird.

"Just, enjoy your time in the Capitol, son," my father tells me gruffly.

I nod, a bit confused about why he would be telling me this. Of course I'm going to enjoy being in the Capitol, it's the best place to live in all of Panem.

None of my older brothers (and I have three of them) come to see me either. Oh, well.

I try to make small talk with Ridley during the car ride to the train station, but she plays hard to get. I'll get her eventually...

Turns out her mom's a Victor. I never would've guessed that. But Clariss must have taught her daughter a thing or two about the Hunger Games, which makes it even more important that I try to ally with Ridley.

I'll convince her somehow. She goes to bed early once we reach the Capitol. I bet she's upset about being reaped. Maybe if I show off in training, she'll figure out that I'm a good ally to have.

With that plan in mind, I fall asleep without any trouble.

* * *

><p>AN: Taking into account everyone's opinion, I've decided to do shorter pieces about the bloodbath tributes which I'll be tacking on to the end of the other tributes'. I know it's a spoiler, but... I really want to get the reapings over with. And hey, there's a few bloodbaths in the previous reapings that I wrote while still really inspired for these chapters, so.

Feedback would be lovely ~ :)


	18. Conflicted Cowboy: Colt Evans

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SIXTEEN<br>**

__the conflicted cowboy__

__(& the shy cowgirl)  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Colt Evans, male tribute of District Ten<em>

I spend most of the night before the reaping lying awake in bed, but not for the reasons I imagine most kids of eligible age would.

Widow Byrne snores. Normally, I refuse to stay the night with the various ladies I... spend time with - but she offered me double the usual amount, and with the reaping tomorrow, well... There's no way of knowing if this will be my last time to earn extra income for my family or not.

I manage to doze off in the small hours of the morning and don't have any dreams that I can remember when Byrne wakes me.

"You'd better get up, Colt, if you don't want to be late for the reaping," she purrs, putting emphasis on my name. It used to bother me, the way Byrne and others like her insist upon saying my name - this is just sex, I'm only doing it for the money, and at times I feel that they forget that. But I'm used to it now, anyway.

"What time is it?" I ask, running a hand through my messy hair.

"Oh, around ten," she murmurs, leaning in. "If we were quick, we could-"

I grin at her, hiding my dismay and annoyance with the idea. "I'd love to, but the streets are sure to be busy, so I'd better get going," I reply, and can't stop myself from turning my head so her kiss hits my cheek rather than my lips. I'm not in the mood for this right now - as she reminded me, it's the day of the reaping.

"Will I see you after the reaping?" she sighs, watching as I root around the room for the rest of my clothes.

"Depends. Do you want to?" I respond easily, pointedly counting the small wad of bills she left on the table on my side of the bed. It's weird to think that I have a side of the bed, but Byrne is one of my oldest customers - in several senses of the word.

Byrne sighs again, this time in regret. "I'd better not," she remarks. She owns the general store in town, which makes her one of the richest citizens of Ten, but today she won't be making any money. It's a day off, of course.

"Next time," I reply, tucking the cash into my pocket. "I'll see you later, maybe." I let myself out the back door, not exactly wanting to be seen exiting her house. What I do is hardly a secret, but I don't want to flaunt it in other people's faces, either. I'm not ashamed, but I'm not proud of what I do at the same time.

I left my horse in the stable on the edge of town. Stealing is punishable by death, of course, but there's always the risk that your horse will be gone - desperate times and measures, and all that.

Rex is waiting for me, his ears perking up when he sees me approaching. The stable boy holds a hand out, barring my entrance to the stall. Sighing, I pull out one of the bills Byrne gave me and hand it to him. His eyes grow wide - this is far more than the fee his family charges for keeping and feeding a horse overnight.

"Keep the change," I tell him generously, and he nods fervently, tucking the bill away before I can change my mind. Then, instead of leaving me to saddle Rex as they usually do, he prepares the horse for me and leads him out, too.

"And say hi to your older sister," I add with a smirk. Appearances have to be kept, after all.

"I will!" the boy assures me, still a little wide-eyed.

The ride to my family's ranch is relatively short - we have a plot of land that's pretty close to the town. I can feel the bruises Byrne left me, courtesy of last night's activities. The reminder has me grimacing in distaste. I've been whoring myself out to the lonely ladies in town for a bit over two years now (only in my head will I call it that) yet I still haven't managed to start liking girls.

Flirting with them is easy as pie; but romantic feelings for them are completely beyond me. I mentioned to my father, once, that I'd dreamed of another boy and he'd- well, the admission hadn't gone over well. I never mentioned it again, and after a few months of watching me like a hawk around my peers, he'd finally relaxed.

In the Capitol, liking the same sex is fine. Heck, even in some of the Districts it's all right. But in District Ten, it just isn't done. I've seen men maimed and shunned for being caught together and- I don't want that.

And maybe, one day, it'll stick. I doubt sleeping with lonely older women is the same as going out with someone my age - but I don't want to lead a nice girl on, especially since I'm almost completely certain I play for the other team.

That's what they call homosexuality here - playing for the other team. It's an insult to say that to someone, like, _what, do you play for the other team or something_? It's just not acceptable.

"You're late," my father greets me gruffly as soon as I walk in the door. His gaze flicks to my neck, and I remember unbuttoning the first few buttons of my shirt in the morning heat. Byrne probably left a mark - she likes to do that.

I arch an eyebrow challengingly. "Late night," is all that I say, resisting the urge to cover the mark. I occupy myself with handing him most of the cash. "I'm going to change." I keep some of my earnings for myself - I need to keep myself clothed nicely and presentable. I've got quite a reputation as a playboy around town, and it's not as easy to pull off as I make it seem.

"Shower too," my father says over his shoulder.

I don't acknowledge his words, but do as he asks anyway. The outfit I wear to the reaping isn't all that different from the clothes I wear day to day, just slightly less worn and my usual pair of jeans is replaced by plain black pants.

My mother made me a small breakfast, and even though it's cold I still enjoy it. A glance at the clock hanging above the door tells me I'm cutting it close.

I make it in time, barely. The mayor and our escort, Purnia Meyer, take the stage just as I reach the front of the line to sign in. A few of my classmates mutter greeting when I reach the seventeen year old section, which I return with a cheery grin.

After the mayor's speech, Purnia takes the microphone.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Ten!" she cheers, pumping her fist enthusiastically. "Is everybody ready for the reeeeaping!"

The silence that greets her shouts is deafening.

Purnia ignores it. "I think we'll start with the boys this year, just to shake things up!" she announces, and skips over to the first reaping bowl. "Ah, hmmm," she hums, clawing around in the slips of names for a moment. I wish she would get it over with. I only have six slips to my name, but I still feel tense.

"Here we are!" Purnia chirps, finally deciding upon a suitable slip and pulling it out." Our lucky male tribute isssss... Colt Evans!" She waves the slip of paper around in the air like a miniature flag. "Come on up, Colt!" she calls.

I fall back on my habits - an easy smile on my face to hide what I'm really thinking, the slightly exaggerated swagger that I know draws people's eyes to me. I'd never _really_ considered that I would end up on this stage, but volunteers are a rare thing in District Ten, and I push my shock and disbelief aside.

"That would be me, ma'am," I say, my smile widening as I hold out my hand. Purnia smiles in return, delighted, and takes my hand. I quickly bring it to my mouth and brush my lips over her second knuckle. "Colt Evans." I tip my hat to her and swagger to where she dazedly tells me to stand.

Purnia clears her throat several times, casting glances over her shoulder at me. My own gaze travels over the crowd - quite a few of my peers look upset, even though I wouldn't call any of them friends. Several girls that I've flirted with (not such an exclusive category, truth be told) look tearful or are actually crying.

It's nice to be appreciated, I suppose.

"This year's female tribute is... Harley Jersey!" Purnia announces, not making the big production she did about picking Harley's name that she did with mine. A scared thirteen year old makes her way to the stage. I assess her for a moment, then look away.

If she survives the bloodbath, I'll be surprised.

Purnia wraps up the reaping, as Harley and I shake hands. Her hand is tiny in my grasp, her palms slick with sweat. I meet her gaze squarely, and to my surprise she does the same, though her eyes are bright with unshed tears and panic.

I'm feeling panicked myself, but it would be stupid to let anyone see that. Little girls like Harley can get away with that and garner sympathy from potential sponsors - but I'm nearing adulthood, and if I let any of that show through, I'd be labelled as weak and dismissed.

The Peacekeepers escort us into the Justice Building, and then we're led to separate rooms to say our goodbyes to anyone who wants to see us.

My first (and only) visitors are my father, mother and older brother, Bull. He's twenty-two - his name hasn't been in a reaping bowl for four years now. Not that I would have expected him to volunteer even if he was eligible.

Unlike me, he's set to inherit the family's ranch. I don't have many prospects, so in that sense I don't have nearly as much to lose by entering the Hunger Games as he would have.

My parents stand there awkwardly, my father looking slightly uncomfortable while, at his side, my mother looks like she wants to speak but doesn't have the words.

Bull finally breaks the silence. "It's not good," he remarks bluntly, which, thanks brother. I hadn't come to that conclusion for myself already. "But you can pull it off," he adds, and that does give me some confidence. He isn't one to lie, even if it is to spare someone's feelings.

I shrug. "Yeah, I can."

My father nods. "You can get a decent training score, and with your..."

"Charms?" I helpfully supply, grinning despite the sombre mood.

"-charms," he agrees, his lips twisting a little. He doesn't approve of what I do, but he never complains when I bring in extra cash. "You can get sponsors."

I know they're just trying to be helpful, but I'd already come to those conclusions myself. I don't know about the people who work in factories like those in Three and Eight, but in District Ten, where most families live on isolated farms... Well, those kids learn skills useful for survival.

I'm one of those kids.

I grin. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," I reply. It _is_ nice to hear a confirmation of my thoughts, though.

"Do you have a token?" my mother questions, speaking up for the first time.

I blink, my grin slipping. I don't have one, actually. And I can't think of anything suitable, either - which is sad in its own way. "No," I answer.

My mother nods. "I have just the thing..."

The three of us Evans men look at her in surprise. She gives a slight smile and pulls something metal out of her purse. "It's a belt buckle," she explains, handing it to me.

The metal is cool against my palm, and I pick it up gently to examine. It's fashioned after (or possibly from) my family's brand.

The first thing I think is that I'm in a similar position to the cows we brand with this symbol: I'm being taken to a nice place to be treated kindly with good food and other luxuries... and from there, I'll end up taken slaughter.

I blame my morbid mood on the situation, and don't voice that thought. "Thanks, ma," I say with a smile. "This'll do real nice." I stop myself from thinking about why, exactly, my mother just happened to be carrying around a token-suitable item.

My father nods, and my brother mutters his agreement. My mother pulls me into a hug, which I return without hesitation.

"Well," my father says gruffly, when my mother steps back. "If you can get your hand on some rope... And you're good at field medicine, from working with the cows..."

It occurs to me that, in his indirect way, my father's trying to tell me he thinks I have a good chance.

"I know, pa," I agree. "I haven't given up yet, and I won't."

He nods briskly. My brother pulls me into a one-armed hug, mussing my hair like he used to when we were kids - except I find myself grinning rather than getting annoyed with him.

"Good luck, little brother," Bull says thickly. "Won't be the same without you, so... Come back."

"Of course I will," I say confidently, and it doesn't feel like a complete lie.

The Peacekeepers escort my family out, and I'm left alone to my thoughts. No one else comes to visit me - which isn't so surprising. I'm well-liked, I think, but there's no one I really consider a close friend. It's hard to get close to people when just about everything you do is a lie...

The car ride to the train station is awkward, to say the least. The novelty of riding in a car (faster and more comfortable than a horse, but I'd still prefer my horse Rex to the machine) is dampened by the knowledge that I'll soon be on my way to the Capitol.

Harley's face is tear-streaked, though her eyes are dry. We make stilted small talk, and I learn that she took out many tesserae; her name was in the female reaping bowl more times than mine was in the male one.

"At least you have a chance," she says softly, right as we pull into the train station.

I can't find anything to say to that; even if I could, my words would have a false ring to them. I'm saved from having to respond by our driver opening the door to let us out.

I smile for the cameras, winking at appropriate intervals. The reporters shout even louder, waving at me to get my attention to answer some of their questions, but I make my excuses and follow Harley into the train. The photographers and reporters didn't even notice her, and she was able to practically run to the safety of the train car.

"You could do to learn from Colt's example, Harley," Purnia scolds my District partner. Harley shrinks away from her, and for a second I think she's going to start crying again. "Don't you want to win?" she adds callously.

My smile feels even more fixed than usual, and I can't help but grit my teeth. I'm not going to get attached to Harley, but I'm not going to go out of my way to be mean to her, either.

Harley's mentor steps in. She's at least seventy - a tough old bird by the name of Belle Tanner. I guess she could have been considered beautiful in her youth. She's still handsome, despite the lines on her face. Since I know she doesn't work, I assume it's from the stress of watching the children she's supposed to guide die in the arena.

That's one thing I hadn't considered - having to mentor if I win. In Ten, there aren't that many Victors to share the duty, and it must be depressing to helplessly watch kids go to their death year after year.

"Didn't you say something about a meal, Purnia?" Belle asks in a stern, matronly sort of way. "I'm sure these children must be starving."

"Oh, yes; I know District food isn't terribly filling," Purnia agrees with what seems to be sympathy, and hurries off.

My mentor is thirty, a stout man named Dalton Field. He gives me an appraising look as Belle leads the sniffling Harley away.

"Colt Evans, sir," I say, holding out a hand for the man to shake.

Dalton arches an eyebrow. "So I heard," he says drily, taking my hand in a firm grip. "... You'll do, if you keep a level head. And get a healthy dose of luck, of course," he adds.

I nod. "Do we discuss strategy now, or..?"

Dalton shakes his head, turning away to follow the rest of our group. "Not now. Later - in private, in the Capitol. No need to go discouraging that girl more than she already is." He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, probably to gauge my reaction.

I nod again. "No, sir. Is there anything I need to know about the Capitol, though, before we arrive?" I ask, keeping pace with him.

My mentor shrugs. "Smile, charm them - but then, you already know that, don't you?" he concludes shrewdly.

I smile, spreading my hands. "Guilty as charged."

Dalton barks a laugh. "I hope you know what you're getting into, son."

"The Hunger Games?" I reply drily.

He sobers up abruptly. "And afterwards, if you manage to win," he says mysteriously.

"... Afterwards?" I question. "There's just the Victory Tour and mentoring."

"For some," Dalton agrees, which doesn't clear things up at all. "The more... attractive and desirable Victors become features in the Capitol, as I'm sure you've noticed."

I nod slowly, but I'm still confused.

"Dalton! Colt! The meal is served," Purnia chirps, peering into the hall where we're standing.

Dalton grunts. "I'll tell you later," he states.

I don't question him during the meal or afterwards, although his words distract me the whole time. I can't figure out what Dalton could possibly be implying.

I watch the reapings on the train, and then the adults tell us to get some sleep. Judging by how Harley huddled smaller and smaller with each Career who volunteered, I doubt she'll be getting much sleep. I'm not tired either, thanks to the fact that I slept in so late this morning, but I don't argue.

I take the opportunity to fix my token to my belt, and then force myself to lie down. I feel restless, Dalton's words nagging at my thoughts.

I do somehow fall asleep, and Dalton wakes me just before we pull into the station at the Capitol in the early hours of the morning.

"So what did you mean?" I ask sleepily, stumbling to my feet.

"Later," Dalton says shortly.

However, we're taken to the Remake Centre, where I'm left to wait for my stylist and prep team while Dalton goes off who knows where.

I'll get an answer out of him eventually...

* * *

><p><em>Harley Jersey, female tribute of District Ten<em>

I knew that my odds of being chosen for the reaping were higher than most girls my age, but I still deluded myself into thinking that I was safe.

Safe. Right. My name was in that reaping bowl eighteen times, and I'm only thirteen. Why so many times? I have five younger siblings, and even with both my parents working full time, there still isn't enough money to go around. I took out a tessera for everyone in my family - eight in all, plus the one mandatory entry.

Still, I don't think eighteen is a lot when you consider there are kids in their last year of eligibility who are in similar siutations for mine. I bet they breathed a sigh of relief when my name was called instead of theirs.

My younger brother, Charles, turns twelve next year. He'll be able to keep supporting the family with tesserae, and he'll even have an easier time of it because there'll be one less mouth to feed...

Colt Evans, my District partner, gives me a short look, like he's examining me. I meet his gaze for a moment, then I have to look away. I wonder what he sees - just another bloodbath tribute? Because that's what I am...

Colt, on the other hand, has a real chance. He's handsome and charming (our escort, Purnia, is fawning over him with no subtlety at all) and will probably get tons of sponsors.

I'm just a scared little girl.

My family bursts into the room in the Justice Building a few minutes after the Peacekeepers escort me there. My younger siblings cling to me, all of them clamouring for me to promise them that I'll come back.

I promise no such thing.

Even little Fillie, she's only three, seems to know that Something Bad is happening, gazing down at me with a tearful gaze from her perch in my father's strong arms.

"Harley, you just run away from the Cornucopia when the time comes," my mother tells me, but it's almost incoherent because she's sobbing so hard.

I nod stiffly. I'll try... That's all I can promise.

The Peacekeeper somehow manages to herd my family out when our allotted time is up, though he seems really annoyed afterward. I just sit quietly, staring down at my tightly clasped hands.

The car ride to the train station is tough. Colt smiles at me, all charm and kindness, but I can't forget the detached way he looked me over on the reaping stage. I stammer some replies back, wanting to be anywhere but stuck in this fancy car with a boy who, I think, wouldn't hesitate to kill me.

"At least you have a chance," I whisper as the car pulls to a stop in front of the station. My eyes widen in dread as I see the Capitol citizens waiting to harass us. I practically run to the train, but when I glance back, I realize it wasn't even necessary. Everyone is focused on Colt anyway.

"You could do to learn from Colt's example, Harley," Purnia scolds me when Colt reaches us. I flinch and shrink away from her, tears prickling at my eyes again. As if I could follow Colt's example. I'm not handsome or charming like he is.

"Don't you want to win?" she adds bluntly. I wipe a shaking hand over my eyes, not trusting myself to speak.

My mentor, Belle Tanner, puts an arm around my shoulders. She's one of the oldest Victors in Panem that still mentors. Technically all the Victors are supposed to mentor at one point or another, but the older ones don't have to really. In Belle's case, she's the only female Victor still living in Ten, so she does the job full time.

That doesn't seem liable to change this year, either. I lean against her gratefully, not trusting myself to look up.

"Didn't you say something about a meal, Purnia?" Belle suggests, but it's anything but a suggestion. "I'm sure these children must be starving."

Purnia thus disposed of, Belle leads me further into the train, murmuring soothingly to me. I sniffle, trying to stop my tears.

The food tastes good, so I guess that's something. The four people from Ten make small talk, and I mostly ignore Purnia, so I feel better by the time a television is brought out. And then we watch the reaping recap, and it's awful. All of the tributes from the Career Districts, even the reaped boy from Five, look like they could take me out without batting an eyelash...

Belle tells me I should go to sleep, since the train won't be reaching the Capitol anytime soon, but I end up lying awake until we reach the station anyway. Wondering about the Careers and how they can kill me isn't the best way to try to fall asleep...

* * *

><p>AN: I fail so hard at writing accents/region-appropriate slang or dialect OR WHATEVER. In fact, I didn't even try with the accents...

Also, the Capitol is a nice pasture where cow-tributes are taken before being slaughtered. :D

And I used pretty much the same noun (is that the proper term? I am so awful with parts of speech) to describe Harley and Colt. But they're both from District Ten, so it's... still not really okay. Ah, well...

We are on the HOME STRETCH, readers. I'm so excited. SO. EXCITED. Three more reapings, everybody!

Feedback is much loved ~~


	19. Polite Gentleman: Cedar Bain

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN<br>**

__the polite gentleman__

__(& the entitled merchant)  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Cedar Bain, male tribute of District Eleven<em>

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I can't help but think that life is very uncertain. Usually I'm not someone who spends lots of time thinking about these things, but today is different - it's the reaping day, and I think everyone acts a little out of character on this day.

I mean, it's the prime example of how uncertain life is. One minute, you're just another kid standing in the crowd at the reaping.

If you're like me, you're in a pair of ripped shorts and a gray t-shirt. Your skin is naturally dark, but darkened even further by long shifts in the fields of District Eleven. Maybe you're worrying about whether or not you're going to be called up to that stage by a freaky-looking Capitol escort, but not _really_ - I mean, you're thirteen, right? Sure, you have a bunch of tesserae (one for each member of your family, two years in a row) but so do tons of other, older kids.

And then, the next second, those artifically-plump, magenta lips curl up into a grin as Candid Bonbo reads _your_ name.

Suddenly nothing is right, it seems like the earth is pulling away from your feet, causing you to stagger as gravity pulls you down. It's not unlike falling from the highest limb in a tree, except you know there's a chance of grabbing onto another branch before you meet the ground with a sickening thud.

(I know what sound accompanies falling from the top of a tree because I've heard it - on the Hunger Games, of course.)

Truthfully, my parents had scraped together enough money to get me a shabby suit for the reaping, but in the past few weeks I've shot up seven inches. The suit didn't fit me anymore. Another example of life's uncertainty. I can't even rely on my body to respond as planned, my usual balance and confidence replaced by clumsy fumbling.

I hate it, but I figured, whatever, I'd have time to get used to it, you know?

Seems unlikely now that I've been reaped for the Hunger Games.

So there I was, standing in a ragged pair of shorts and a gray t-shirt that was only slightly too small, as Candid chattered away to the crowd. Ashley Epstein, a girl about my height but a year older, was to be my District partner.

She looked like she was trying to keep calm, but her breath was coming in sharp little inhalations that betrayed her panic. Not that I was much better - I felt my own lips trembling as I tried to hold back tears.

It just figures, you know? I try my best to take care of everyone by taking extra shifts in the orchard or the field, and what is my reward?

Getting reaped for the Hunger Games.

I didn't really listen to Candid wrapping up the ceremony, and then Ashley and I shook hands. Her hand was limp and clammy, and she wouldn't meet my eyes. I gave her a polite smile, but I don't think she saw it.

And then I was escorted here by the pale-skinned Peacekeepers in their spotless white uniforms.

I almost want to break the mirror in front of me. We don't even _own_ a mirror, and the Capitol has one in the room used _once a year_ for tributes to say goodbye to their family. I hate the sad little boy it's reflecting back at me. Because for all that I've grown seven inches, I'm still only five-three, and scrawny.

Like someone like me would even stand a chance against strong, trained volunteers.

The door opens just as I draw back my fist to shatter the piece of glass, admitting my family - all four of them. My older brothers, Dax and Easton (aged eighteen and fifteen respectively), and my parents. My name was in the reaping bowl twelve times out of- thousands.

I mean, my brothers had worse odds than I did. So how did I end up here, as the visited rather than the visitor?

My mother envelops me in a hug, looking like she's about to burst into tears.

Morbidly, I can't help thinking that at least she'll have one son for sure: this was Dax's last reaping. Easton could still be reaped, though.

I can't even bring myself to think that I have a chance of coming back. I doubt I'll even survive the bloodbath.

"Cedar," Dax says, his voice breaking. His light brown eyes are anguished. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't be," I say, surprising everyone (including myself) with the harshness of my voice. I muster a smile to try and smooth it over. "Don't be," I repeat in a more even tone. "I mean, you've got a girlfriend, and stuff." I'm not mad, really. Older siblings that volunteer for their younger ones never seem to last long. The only Victor who did so that comes to mind is Katniss Everdeen.

And look where she is now.

My father looks more upset than anyone else, though. He and I are the most alike, I think - my mother takes care of the household and cooks most of the meals, but my father is the one who provides for us. I mean, the kids are expected to take out tesserae, otherwise we'd all starve, but my father does his part too, working every possible extra shift that he can. I do too, since I started working two years ago.

My older brothers are more interested in hanging out with their friends - or in Dax's case, his girlfriend - than they are in taking extra shifts. I guess I can understand that, slightly. I'm on friendly terms with most of the kids I work and attend school with, but there's no one that I would call my close friend.

I don't know if it's because of my need to try and help everyone close to me that I try not to get too close to my peers, or if I just have a problem getting close to people in general.

Well, it doesn't really matter now.

"You have a chance," Easton says weakly, but he doesn't even sound like he believes that.

"I guess," I mutter, still wanting to put up a strong face for their sakes, even if I don't feel that way myself. Maybe if I hadn't gotten a growth spurt so recently, I'd still be able to rely on my natural agility, but that's not really an option now.

"You're a nice boy, Cedar," my dad tells me. "You'll make some friends, and you can make it to the end on that."

I nod. Nice kids don't last long. Maybe this year it will be different... But I doubt it. "I don't have a token," I say quietly, staring down at my sun-darkened hands.

My father pulls off his watch, an expensive silver thing that has been in the family for ages. It's worn and nicked from years of service, but it still ticks on faithfully. "You can have this, son," he says, his voice close to despair.

I take it, clenching my fist around the warm metal. Tradition in our family is that the watch goes to the first son... But I don't think anyone has ever been reaped from my family before. And I think the tokens get returned to the families after the Games, so Dax will probably wind up wearing this anyway. "Thank you, sir," I whisper, rubbing the pad of my thumb obsessively over the scratched watch face.

"Cedar, how many times have I told you not to call me sir?" my father asks gently. It's an ingrained habit though; I call anyone older than me (even if the age difference is only a year) either sir or ma'am, depending on their gender of course. Except my brothers - I know them too well to do that, I guess.

The Peacekeeper tells us that our time is almost up - already? I bite my lip, looking down at the watch: my token. I won't cry. I won't-

My mother sniffles and pulls me into another hug, and then my father hugs both of us. After the Peacekeeper clears his throat impatiently, they reluctantly step away.

"Good luck, Cedar," my mother whispers.

Dax pulls me into a one-armed embrace, and Easton claps me on the back.

Neither of them wish me luck. I think it would have sounded false if they had.

I try not to think about the Hunger Games for the remainder of the goodbye hour, but I'm not very successful.

Ashley and I ride to the station in silence. I don't like the car, it seems too fast and it smells of smoke - the driver is puffing away at a cigarette. I wrinkle my nose and stare out the window as the familiar landscape blurs past. For brief moments, I can see glimpses of the fields through the gaps of the buildings. Some people are working at them already - I'd planned to be among them, actually; working overtime on Panem's one holiday is a sure way to make more money.

Maybe I'll win the Hunger Games, and my family will never have to worry about money again.

But I'm not holding my breath.

Ashley and I both walk really quickly from the car to the waiting train, ignoring the babble of the reporters and the flashing of their cameras - we arrive at exactly the same time, almost like we planned our escape to the train. We didn't, of course.

I give her a weak smile and step back. "After you, ma'am," I say.

Her eyes narrow slightly at me, but she hurries past into the cool interior of the train. Nate Thompson, a man in his fifties, is my mentor. He has a prematurely lined face - probably from watching all his tributes die in the arena.

I muster another smile. "Nice to meet you sir." I hold out my hand for him to shake. After a moment, he takes it in a firm grip.

Nate smells like alcohol, though. He's a drunk, always blowing his money at the one pub in town - I think the only reason he hasn't been robbed is because Victors are untouchable. I guess his alcoholism could be from watching his tributes die in the arena too.

"You better hope you get a good ally - a Career, maybe. Run like hell from the Cornucopia, grab some supplies if you can - but don't push it."

I nod, to show that I'm keeping up. Nate turns away and walks deeper into the train. A few moments later, the train lurches into motion, smoothly accelerating until the fields I've lived around for my whole life are little more than blurs. My mentor nearly loses his footing, staggering against the wall.

I hurry after him, steadying his nearest arm. "Is that it, sir?" I ask.

Nate's lips curl upward. "Of course it is. What else can I tell you? Hope the arena is like District Eleven? They never do anything like that." He jerks his arm out of my grasp and somehow makes his way to the dining cart. I follow, anger and fear eating at my stomach.

It's no wonder our tributes never win, with mentors like that.

Maya, Ashley's mentor, seems to be a little more helpful than Nate. I try to listen in, but it's hard with Candid chattering away on my other side.

I guess that's human nature - even though I've given up any hope of returning home, I'm still trying to eavesdrop in the hope that it will help me out in the arena.

Dinner passes far too quickly, followed by the reaping recaps. I can barely bear to watch, flinching as Career after Career volunteers. Even though two of them are close to my age, and some of them aren't much taller than me, I can't shake the feeling that if it came to a fight they would kill me in a few seconds.

Well, at least most of the other tributes don't seem to stand a better chance than I would. The ones that are my age, anyway. Of course, there are far more older kids reaped than younger ones.

Maya ushers Ashley and me to bed - Nate passed out sometime around District Six's reaping, so she's left to pick up the slack - after the recap is over.

I lie awake, listening to the almost-silent hum of the train moving over the tracks. I can't sleep - I don't want to sleep, actually. Since all of my thoughts center around the Hunger Games - the arena, or the mutts, or my fellow tributes - I doubt any of my dreams would be very pleasant.

I somehow manage to fall asleep anyway, and when I bolt awake a few hours later, there's soft pre-dawn light filtering through the window.

I'm afraid of three main things - fire, large bodies of water, and large animals. Of course, my dream would incorporate those things to create an endless ocean of an arena, patrolled by giant aquatic mutts that breathe fire - not to mention the Careers chasing me down. They also breathed fire.

I know that it isn't real - it didn't even make sense - but I'm still sweating and shaking.

I don't fall asleep again, thankfully, and within the hour Maya comes to wake me up.

I just assume Nate is hungover or something. Probably the light is too bright for his eyes.

The Capitol greets us, and somehow it seems every bit as alien and unreal (and terrifying) as my stupid dream.

_Ashley Epstein, female tribute of District Eleven_

Let's get one thing straight: I'm not the type of person who gets reaped for the Hunger Games. Those kids are the ones who take out a million tesserae each year, to support their ten-plus family and still end up going to bed hungry on a regular basis.

Sure, I've taken out a tessera or two, but even so I only had eight entries in that reaping bowl. The thing was practically overflowing, I'm surprised a few slips didn't fall out when Candid stuck her claw into it.

Of course, she pulled out _my name_.

I don't work the fields, my parents work in the main town, and _come on_ my odds were literally eight in a million.

To be honest, I felt furious when Candid called my name. I wasn't scared about going into the Hunger Games - I was just really mad that of all people, I was the one whose name came out of that stupid reaping bowl.

When I got to the stage, the panic sets in a little bit - I tried to focus on my anger, to keep the fear at bay as I stared at the many, many assembled children who looked relieved not to be on this stage in my place. Candid asks for volunteers, but I know no one is going to say a word.

I stare at my feet when Candid tells me to shake hands with my District partner - a short boy named Cedar. His hand is calloused and rough: he must be a fieldworker. Someone like him belongs up on this stage. _Not_ someone like me.

I wonder what he feels. I think my hands are clammy, a combination of this stupidly hot day and my lurking fear - I imagine they're soft too, certainly not the work-hardened hands that he has.

I glare at the back of the Peacekeeper who leads me to the designated room in the Justice Building. I want to tell him I don't belong here, that there's been some sort of mistake, but I know that Peacekeepers have no mercy.

I saw them beat a young boy half to death one day. He tried to steal from my father's store. I reported him, thinking that he deserved to be punished, but not to that extent. Maybe a verbal warning, roughing the boy up a bit - but he was unconscious when the Peacekeeper's whip finally fell silent.

Well, I never saw the boy again, so I guess the lesson stuck.

My parents are plainly upset when they come to visit me. I'm an only child, so they've pinned pretty much all of their hopes on me. Now there's no one to take over the family business, unless I somehow manage to come back alive.

The odds are against me, but given how unreliable they've been - I mean, I did just _get reaped_ - then maybe it's a sign of what's to come. Maybe I'll win the Hunger Games.

My mother hugs me tightly and cries into my shoulder. I stare at my father, silently telling him to get her off me. He joins our group therapy session a few moments later, and I think that I'm either going to suffocate or drown. Possibly both.

Morbid, much? Well, if I'm going to die anyway... I guess there are worse ways to go.

My mother presses her gold bracelet into my hand, one of our family's prized possessions. My token. I dutifully put it on. I've spent so much time thinking about it, and wondering what it would feel like to have and wear it - and now I do have it, and it's really nothing special. I'd give it back or throw it away in a heartbeat if it meant I could stay in District Eleven.

I make some vague promises about trying my best, and finally my parents are escorted out. The rest of the hour passes pretty quickly, and before I know it I'm in a car with Cedar. I've always wanted to ride in a car, too . Well, I'd pass the experience up if I could live a while longer, like I said...

We both hurry to the train, arriving at the entrance at the exact same time. Cedar backs off, giving me a fake smile and calling me ma'am.

That annoys me - I'm only a year older than him, I'm not some old woman.

At least he seems sincere about it, not mocking or sarcastic. Well, he should respect me. I'm better than he is.

Maya Marigold, my mentor, is in her mid-forties. She won the 297th Hunger Games, which was also the last time anyone from District Eleven made it home. She seems to be trying to act motherly and impart some wisdom to me about surviving the Games, but I only listen with half an ear.

The food is delicious, and if I'm going to die I'd rather gorge myself on this amazing food than listen to an old woman prattle away at me. Candid is no better, her obnoxiously grating accent assaulting my ears from the other side. Cedar is sitting right next to her, it must be awful for him.

I stare out the window instead of focusing on the reaping recap, but I still catch glimpses of the tributes. I'll see them in training, I guess.

Maya tells us to go to bed, but I stay in the dining cart, drinking bitter coffee. It keeps me awake, which is good because I don't want to sleep.

I'm still somewhat alert a few hours later when Cedar walks in and then after when we pull into the station at the Capitol.

I should be able to sleep before the chariot ride, right? Or maybe during it - I've never actually seen a tribute fall off the chariot during that portion of the pre-Games, but it would probably be entertaining to watch. Assuming I'm not the one doing the falling, of course...

* * *

><p>AN: I have no excuse or explanation for the lateness of this chapter. I do intend to finish this story, but the reapings are really getting to me. Plus, university started, etc., etc. (Oh look, excuses, there they are ~)

Sorry, sorry for taking almost a month to update. Hopefully the next few chapters will be more timely, but I don't know. Inspiration comes and goes.

Feedback is very much appreciated.


	20. Pragmatic Realist: Jackdaw Cody

Disclaimer: Hunger Games does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<br>**

__the pragmatic realist__

__(& the Victor's sister)  
><em>_

* * *

><p><em>Jackdaw Cody, male tribute of District Twelve<em>

What is there to say about District Twelve? I can't think of anything that it has going for it. There are things that set it apart from the other Districts, sure, but none of them are _good_. We have only seven Victors to our name, after 323 years of the Hunger Games. That's a pretty awful track record.

Four of them were from before the Second Rebellion; the fifth won in the 100's - and there's the two we have now: Valerian Lazar, a man in his early fifties who won the 290th Hunger Games, and Delphi North, a boy the same age as me who won the 320th Games. He was in my class in school, although I didn't have much to do with him - kids from the Town and those from the Seam don't interact much.

Delphi got reaped when he was twelve, and the only reason he won is because his partner took pity or had mercy, whatever you want to call it, on him.

Another thing that makes District Twelve more interesting - I use that term loosely - compared to the rest of Panem is the level of starvation. Sure, the other Districts don't exactly have all that they really need in the way of food, but I don't think they're _truly_ starving in the way we are. It's not a noted or accepted fact, but I'd bet that, hands down, starvation is the number one cause of death in this District.

Though, to be honest, I don't have much to do with that aspect of my beloved home. I may look like a Seam kid - unruly black hair and grey eyes, the trademark of the poorer side of Twelve - but I'm a Townie. My father is the blacksmith, supplying the equipment - like pickaxes or mine carts - for the miners. He's blond-haired and blue-eyed, of course; my mother is from the Seam, though, and she's where I get my colouring from. And my general appearance, for that matter - I'm barely scraping five foot five, and scrawny; whereas my father is a giant of a man.

I'm sixteen now, so I should be getting my growth spurt soon, I'm sure.

I always feel... not uncomfortable, but uneasy, standing in the crowd during the reaping. There's the obvious reason - no one, I think, can shake the thought that, maybe, this year will be the year some tacky Capitol escort pulls their name out of the bowl - but I also feel uneasy because of the people around me. My clothes are the same ones I've worn in past years (I look closer to thirteen, which, coincidentally, is when I got this particular suit) but they look new, while the majority of the kids around me are in nearly-worn-out outfits that have seen many reapings.

I don't think anyone can stand out as much as our air-headed Capitol escort, though. As far as I know, Tensia Shard has been the escort for District Twelve since Valerian won and the previous escort got promoted. She always manages to make some dig about the 'poor prospects, _har, har_' of District Twelve. It's an awful joke, but even if it wasn't, I still wouldn't feel sorry for her.

I mean, I know her life must be awful, having to visit District Twelve one day a year, and having to escort bloodbath tribute after bloodbath tribute- not.

Tensia makes her way to the microphone, perched on heels that must be eight inches. I don't even know. "Ahem," she coughs delicately into the microphone, trying futilely to gain our attention.

Everyone ignores her. I duck my head to hide my smirk. Good old District Twelve.

"District _Twe-lve_," she practically screeches, dragging the number out into two syllables. I wince as the speakers whine and scream. "I know you're all _super excited_ about the reaping, but you'll have to settle down so I can pick the names, ok?" she says in this grating, patronizing tone.

Grudgingly - probably to ensure no one goes deaf(er) - the crowd quiets down. Tensia wobbles over to the first reaping bowl - the one for the girls.

"Our lucky girl this year is... oh, _my_! This is _quite_ a surprise," Tensia cheers, her plastic-y blue lips widening into a grin that I can only describe as bloodthirsty. "Would Lily _North_ please climb to the stage?"

Some people were still whispering amongst themselves, little more than a background murmur, but every conversation stops when she says 'North'.

Delphi's face - dark, as everyone from the Seam seems to be - pales and he moves to stand. Valerian grabs his arm and sits him back down. The younger Victor jerks away and jumps to his feet.

"I volunteer," he says, obviously desperate.

Tensia purses her lips, turning to regard the brother. "Really, Delphi," she says, as if scolding a small child. "You can't keep all the glory for yourself! And you already participated in the Hunger Games." She rolls her eyes and turns back to the crowd. "Lily North, come to the stage," she orders.

I exchange glances with the person next to me - everyone looks as stunned as I feel. Obviously, I've seen the relatives (especially the children) of Victors get reaped before, but since District Twelve only has two living Victors, no one ever really considered that something like that would happen _here_.

Lily's only fourteen, anyway. I wouldn't let my younger sibling take out any tesserae if I won the Hunger Games, so she must only have had like three slips in that bowl.

"There's no rules against participating twice," Delphi argues. "I'm still eligible-"

"It's fine, Delphi," a girl says quietly, and mounts the stage. She looks like Delphi's sister, but then most of the Seam kids look related to each other. I guess that includes me, since I look a lot like them.

Valerian pulls Delphi back into his seat, whispering something to the other Victor.

Tensia smiles at the girl. "Well! I wonder who our lucky boy will be, today? Surely not someone as famous as a Victor's sister..."

Obviously not, considering the name she's going to be drawing will be male. The vicious amusement I'd felt at District Twelve's obvious reluctance to participate in this farce of a celebration is gone now, replaced by anger on Delphi and Lily's behalves.

Would I do what Delphi just did, try to volunteer for my younger sibling? Robin is only four, so that wouldn't even work out, but Finch is twelve - this is his first reaping. Despite the fact that we're the same height (much to my chagrin) and he's actually a bit bulkier than me, I'm the survivor. Finch is frail and hates going outside of his comfort zone. Would I be able to save him from almost certain death, at the cost of my own life?

"Ah, and District Twelve's second tribute will be _Jackdaw Cody_," Tensia informs us smugly.

I blink, my shoulders tensing. I guess I won't have to find out, will I..? I try to keep my face in a calm mask, some part of my mind already working out the best way to keep myself alive. The other sixteen year olds part silently before me, trying (and failing) to hide their relief. I do feel some despair - hundreds of children have died before me, evidence that the odds seem to never be in District Twelve's favour - but kids who break down crying are labelled as weaklings.

I don't want to be one of those kids.

Finch is staring at me from the twelve year old section, his shock obvious. I guess if someone with three slips can get reaped, a person like me who had all of five is no more remarkable.

Tensia returns to the centre of the stage. "Any volunteers, District Twelve- any _eligible_ volunteers, that is," she adds, shooting a glance at Delphi over her shoulder.

Silence reigns.

I'm not surprised. The only volunteer from my District that comes to mind is Katniss Everdeen. And Peeta Mellark, I suppose, if you're being technical. He did volunteer for Haymitch Abernathy in the Second Quarter Quell.

Tensia wraps up the reaping, and I shake hands with Lily. She has a good poker face, revealing nothing of the emotion I'm sure she must be feeling. I hope mine is half as good as hers. I'm not scared, exactly - but that doesn't mean I want to go to the Hunger Games either.

I can't help thinking that, unless Delphi somehow trained her - unlikely, considering how he achieved his own victory (by default) - then this girl has no chance of winning. She isn't underfed like most of us, but she looks delicate.

Then again, I guess if someone looked at me they'd think I don't have any chance of winning either. I would disagree. So it's not a good idea to underestimate someone just based on appearances.

I've been in the Justice Building a few times, with my father. Not enough to be familiar with its layout, but I do faintly recognize the hall that I'm led down. I've never thought about where the kids who get reaped go to say goodbye - everyone knows it's the Justice Building, obviously, but beyond that...

I guess no one, myself included, wants to dwell on the unfortunate children waiting to be led to slaughter. It's troubling to lump myself into that category, actually. I like to think of myself as someone who doesn't flinch away from the truth.

My family enters the room a few minutes after I get there, giving me some time to examine the room the Peacekeepers escort me to. It's nice. I imagine the Capitol is nicer. The niceness is dampened by the knowledge that I'm going to the arena and - it has to be faced but - odds are I won't be coming back out.

For all that I resent the Capitol for the way it oppresses us, I think that if I was given the chance to stay in District Twelve, scraping out a living in the perpetually coal-dusted streets rather than entering the arena and facing a certain, young death - I'd pick the former.

But the chance, however slim, of winning the Hunger Games also appeals to me, and since I know that there's no way of getting out of this, I allow myself to latch onto that hope.

"Jack!" my youngest brother cries, fastening his stubby little arms around my waist with surprising strength. I'm always vaguely surprised to see him in clothes - he enjoys shocking everyone's sensibilities by running around naked. Being only four years old, he can actually get away with it. "Why do you have to go away, Jack?" Robin whines, staring imploringly up at me.

I feel bad for him. Robin doesn't understand the Hunger Games yet, not really. My parents don't let him watch it, either. I wonder if they'll be watching this year? "Because the Capitol-"

"Because he got reaped, Robin," my father interrupts, frowning at me. When our gazes meet, he looks pointedly at the door - indicating the Peacekeeper who is probably listening outside.

I resist the urge to roll me eyes - I'm already reaped, what more can they do to me? I know the answer to that, though, so I just keep quiet.

"I don't want him to go," Robin complains.

"I have to go, Robin," I explain. "I don't have any choice."

"But you'll come back, right?"

I shrug helplessly. "I'll do my best."

Robin frowns up at me, like he's trying to gauge whether I'm telling the truth or not. "Ok. You better," he says sternly.

I nod, and he lets go of me to examine the couch. Upon finding it comfy, he starts bouncing up and down on it.

"You can make it back, Jack," Finch tells me quietly. "You're smart and quick, you won't fall for the stupid mistakes other tributes from Twelve always seem to."

I wonder if they really 'fall for stupid mistakes' - if I was a chronically malnourished kid from the Seam, facing the prospect of almost certain death, wouldn't it be better to just get it over with at the bloodbath, rather than running and hiding in an attempt to prolong the inevitable..? (Though how much better, really, are my odds than theirs?)

"That's true," I agree. I may not be a large, strong man like my father, but my talents lie elsewhere. As Finch said, I'm smart - although I'm not much good at forging the large items like the coal carts, I have a thriving business of smaller metal contraptions - locks, handcuffs, little traps. Black market, of course. It seemed like a really good setup, since Finch is showing real talent with the larger items - we'd make a good team, if it came to that.

Now, the future seems anything but certain.

"You just keep your head down, and the rest will come," my father tells me.

I grimace - I'm not good at keeping my head down. If I see something unjust, I'm not one to keep my mouth shut about it and turn a blind eye. "I'll try," I say.

He doesn't look convinced. "There's usually hatchets at the Cornucopia," he remarks, changing the subject. He knows that talking about it any further won't do anything to sway me.

I nod. Being Twelve's blacksmith, there's usually pickaxes lying around the workshop. Finch and I have been training with them, and how different is a pickaxe from a hatchet? Not so different, surely. "I'd have to get in and get out quickly," I point out.

"Jack, Cole, let's not talk about this right now. Jack has his mentor to discuss strategy with," my mother puts in, looking upset.

I wonder about that. Delphi will want to mentor Lily, surely; and I wonder if Valerian would be so eager to help me - not because he seems like the type to abandon his kid in the arena, but he and Delphi must be close, since they're the only Victors Twelve has.

But I can easily come up with a strategy on my own, that much is true. "That's true."

We make stilted small talk for the rest of the time, punctuated by periods of awkward silence. After some time, I'm not sure how much, the Peacekeeper escorts my family out.

No one else comes to visit me - I'm something of a loner, and while I do hang out with the other kids from the Town, I wouldn't call us close.

Lily's eyes are a little bit red when I rejoin her, but she says nothing. I wonder if anyone came to visit her. Would her brother have been allowed to, being a Victor and a mentor?

The reporters and photographers waiting at the train station focus almost solely on Lily. That's fine by me - I haven't quite figured out how I want to portray myself yet, and just try to keep my face calm and impassive. Lily does the same, coolly ignoring the questions directed at her.

As soon as we get on the train, Delphi leads his sister away. Valerian gives me a rueful smile and shows me to the dining car. There's a lavish meal set out, though Tensia apologizes for the 'modest' selection.

I try not to listen too closely to what she says after that, because her oblivious ignorance would probably make me angry. Instead, I try to talk to my mentor.

"Don't eat too much," Valerian warns. "Your stomach probably isn't used to the rich food."

"I'm not from the Seam," I say, but I do slow down after that.

Valerian blinks, looking surprised. "Ah. I just assumed-"

"Yeah, my mom's Seam," I explain, shrugging. "But I do have a chance, so don't count me out yet."

The older man raises his eyebrows. "And what sort of talents do you have, Jackdaw?"

"You can call me Jack," I respond absently, wondering what to say. "... You'll mentor _me_, right?" I ask after a moment.

"I'm your mentor," Valerian answers promptly.

"Delphi's your friend, isn't he?" I point out.

The mentor inclines his head. "True. But he'll be mentoring Lily, and I will be mentoring you."

"Thank you," I say. "My dad's the blacksmith."

"Yes," Valerian agrees, recognition flaring in his eyes. "Cody. Of course. But, you don't seem to have the... physique of a blacksmith."

I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest. I know that, and I do try to do strengthening exercises to make up for it - though you wouldn't know it just by looking at me. "I'm good with making small things with metal - like traps and snares."

Valerian nods, which I take as encouragement to continue.

"I'm fast, I can hide in small places... I'm smart."

"Do you know anything about edible plants?" Valerian asks.

I shake my head, grimacing.

"If you're smart, you should be able to pick up some basic knowledge. Spend time at the edible plants station," he orders. "Learn how to use a knife, that's the most common weapon in the arena. Pretty useless against an armed Career, but if you get the drop on them..."

I nod. "I do have some practice with a pickaxe. My brother and I like to play around," I add, not wanting to make it sound like I've been training. That's illegal in non-Career Districts, after all.

"Try out an axe, then; it could be similar, and they're much more common than pickaxes," Valerian remarks, eyeing me. "But I'd learn the basics of wielding a knife if I was you."

"I will," I tell. "Any other suggestions?"

"Yes- but not right now," Valerian says apologetically. Lily and Delphi walk in as he says this, so I assume that means he was telling the truth when he said he'd mentor me. I'm not sure about them yet - I'll ask Valerian if I should trust them later.

I excuse myself after a few minutes, and I hear the three of them start a conversation as I leave. I linger for a second to eavesdrop, but when it becomes clear they're just discussing Lily's chances, I continue to the room set aside for me.

I manage to nap for a bit, before Tensia calls me for dinner. We watch the reaping recap while eating, which causes me to lose my appetite - I notice that Tensia is the only one continuing to eat with gusto after all the Careers volunteer.

"Well, try to get some sleep. We'll be arriving in the Capitol tomorrow morning, and you'll be in the hands of your stylist," Valerian tells me after night falls. "Try to stay on good terms with your stylist, even if you don't agree with their fashion choices - I'm sure they could do worse if they put their mind to it."

"I'll try," I say, which seems to be becoming my mantra. It depends what my stylist ends up putting me in. I've seen tributes go almost naked before, and it's not pretty. I don't want to be one of those kids. "Good night."

"Good night."

I try not to think about my competition, which is a bit difficult considering I just saw them before going to bed. It's a slightly comforting thought to think that the normal, reaped tributes seem a lot like me, but I can't shake the image of the Careers.

* * *

><p><em>Lily North, female tribute of District Twelve<em>

To be honest, I was almost expecting my name to be called. There was a quiet voice in the back of my head saying _it might not be you_ but most of me was convinced that the name Tensia was going to pull out of the female reaping bowl would be mine.

As soon as I saw her reaction, I knew what she would say. I hated the way she said my name - Lily _North_, and if the only thing that matters if that I'm related to District Twelve's famous Victor, Delphi.

Everyone else freezes in surprise, making it easy for me to push my way to the front. Halfway there, the other fourteen year olds in front of me seem to wake up, parting silently before me.

"I volunteer," Delphi says. I can hear the desperation in his voice, but then again I'm sure everyone can.

Tensia looks disapproving. "Really, Delphi," she scolds. "You can't keep all the glory for yourself!" I scoff inwardly at that, still making my slow walk to the stairs. "And you already participated in the Hunger Games." She turns back to the crowd. "Lily North, come to the stage," she orders.

"There's no rules against participating twice," Delphi argues. "I'm still eligible-"

"It's fine, Delphi," I say quietly, as I walk onto the stage. Hopefully he'll catch the silent message of _stop making it worse_.

Valerian pulls Delphi back into his seat, whispering basically what I was trying to convey to him. Delphi still looks furious, but he says nothing that I can hear as I stand where Tensia bids me to. I keep my face emotionless - although I wasn't surprised to be reaped, I am a little upset, but I don't want to give anyone watching the satisfaction of seeing that. And I know Delphi probably feels bad enough as if, and I don't want to make him feel worse.

Why did I think I would get reaped? Well, Delphi's birthday was a few months ago, after the latest Victory Tour. He was called to the Capitol to 'celebrate'. He came back shaken, almost as bad as he had been after returning from the arena four years ago. He told me that President Flame had wanted him to sleep with certain rich members of the Capitol society - Clarion Templesmith, among others.

He'd said no.

Flame had calmly told him that she would have me reaped if he didn't comply, but he'd been so shocked and scared he hadn't really believed her.

Now, back in District Twelve, he couldn't shake the feeling that she had been completely serious.

Since I'm now standing up here on this stage, I can only assume that she was.

The thing is, since so many kids take out tesserae each year, Delphi and I always just assumed that, so long as I didn't take any out myself, I wouldn't get reaped. We never discussed the arena, or what it might take to make it out of there alive. I have no practical survival skills. The only thing I really have going for me is that I'm well-fed - and even that can be a detriment in the arena.

Tensia continues with the reaping, and a sixteen year old boy - who looks closer to my age - from the Seam joins me on the stage. He doesn't look familiar, but maybe Delphi knows him. They're the same age, after all.

Tensia obnoxiously asks if there are any volunteers (which there aren't) and then tells Jackdaw and I to shake hands.

We do, and Jackdaw's face seems as expressionless as mine. He could be a good ally... Although I can't imagine him wanting to ally with me, if he finds out that I have no skills.

The Peacekeepers escort of us to the Justice Building, and I sit by myself in the room for the whole hour. My mother died in childbirth, and my father died in a mining accident when I was seven. Delphi and I lived in the Community Home for three years, until he won the Hunger Games.

I've been living with him in the Victor's Village ever since.

I don't know how I feel about this, actually. The thought of my brother being sold for his body is abhorrent, but I don't want to be collateral damage either. If this is a punishment, I'm not under any illusions about my odds of coming back to District Twelve - I've seen the Gamemakers send obstacle after obstacles, in the form of traps or mutts or even the environment itself, against tributes until they die.

It might even be better if I just died in the bloodbath.

Or maybe I'll get lucky and get a relatively benevolent Career as my partner, like Delphi did. But I seriously doubt that will happen.

As soon as I get past the obnoxious reports hurling ignorant questions at me, Delphi whisks me away to what I can only assume is the room I've been assigned. It's not as nice as the room I have in Delphi's house in the Victor's Village, but I imagine other kids would be really impressed by it.

I wonder how many hundreds of girls from District Twelve have spent the night in this room. The last female Victor we had was back in the 100's. Or maybe they rotate the trains around, or this could be a new train entirely.

I try not to dwell on that.

"Lily, I'm sorry," Delphi says, looking close to tears, which is really just no good. If he starts crying, I know I'm going to lose it, and I don't want to appear weak. If I'm going to die, it will be with dignity. They can put me in their Games, but they can't make me play. "I didn't know-"

"It's ok, Delphi," I say, trying to convince both of us that it will be all right. It won't be, and we both know that. "I'm in the Games whether you like it or not. And when I'm gone-"

"You'll make it back, I'll make sure you'll make it back!" Delphi practically shouts.

"-when I'm gone, they won't have any leverage over you. So don't... sell yourself to try to get me back. I don't want that."

"How can you be so calm about dying?" my older brother demands angrily.

"I don't want to die," I snap, losing my temper as well. "But do you honestly think I have a chance? If you sell yourself trying to get me back, you'll be doing what _she_ wants. And if I'm going to die, I want it to be for a reason, Delphi!"

Delphi flinches, as if I struck him. "Lily..."

"It's not up for discussion, Delphi," I retort.

"I don't want you to die! I can't just watch you-"

"You can, and you will," I say flatly.

"Lily," he tries again.

"I'm hungry, there's a dining car, right?" I interrupt, changing the subject. I don't want to talk about this anymore, because if I do I'm afraid I really will cry.

Jackdaw and Valerian are talking when we enter, probably about the Hunger Games since Valerian changes the subject as soon as we walk in. He's like an uncle to me, or at least what I imagine an uncle would be like if I'd had any.

Maybe sensing the mood, Jackdaw excuses himself after he's finished eating, and Delphi immediately pounces.

"Lily says she's not coming back, Valerian," Delphi says. "She has a chance, right?"

Valerian stares at my brother for a moment, probably deciding whether or not he should humour him. "You told me what... _she_ told you, Delphi. I doubt it," the man says.

"Who told you what?" Tensia asks brightly.

"Tensia, is that your natural hair colour?" I ask outrageously. Obviously the fluorescent green is fake.

"No, but it certainly looks it, doesn't it?" Tensia answers, pleased. I nod in agreement and she starts babbling about it, to our relief. Crisis averted.

"Lily has to come back, Valerian," Delphi whispers to his former mentor.

"Delphi, close relatives - siblings and children - of Victors get reaped quite often. They almost never come back," Valerian replies gravely, in a tone that brooks no argument.

I spend most of the time looking at the window as Valerian and Delphi argue in heated whispers. Apparently Delphi isn't going to give up that easily. I appreciate the thought, but it just seems futile to me at this point.

Jackdaw reappears for dinner, which coincides with the reaping recap. Watching that destroys what little appetite I had left. Between seeing the Careers who volunteer and the kids like me, relatives of past Victors, that get reaped... I escape to my room as soon as I can.

It's hard to fall asleep, but somehow I manage it.

I'll be facing the Capitol on a chariot, probably dressed in a really awful costume. I'm going to need my wits about me.

* * *

><p>AN: Hm, longest chapter so far, I think. And the update is a bit more timely than the last, right? I hesitate to say that I'll update once a week (because I am terrible at keeping to schedules) but I'll do my best. :)

Feedback would be appreciated ~


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